


My Hope

by CelestialVoid



Series: Prey [4]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 75th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, BAMF Derek, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Bombing, Bombing of District 12, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dad Stiles, District 12 Derek, District 12 Perspective, District 12 Stiles, Gen, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Jabber Jays, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Quarter Quell, dad derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 08:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 43,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12164787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: Everything was beginning to settle and life was returning to normal in District 12, then everything changed. Stiles and Derek are put back in the Games and John is left fighting for hope.





	1. Chapter 1

The nights were peaceful in the District, a comforting quiet that settled through the coal-clad streets. The animals were asleep – no dogs barking, bats screeching, or crickets chirping - and the mines were closed until the dawn shift started.

The only thing that stirred among the darkness was Stiles.

John woke to the familiar sound of his son’s bedroom door opening and his quiet footsteps pattering about the house, skilfully dodging the whining floorboards and trying to stay as quiet as possible as not to disturb anyone else in the house.

The old man sighed as he rose from his bed and pulled on a jacket and his boots.

He made his way downstairs and out onto the balcony where Stiles sat with a mug of tea cupped in his hands, a blanket pulled tight around his slender shoulders and his knees tucked up to his chest.

The wooden boards of the balcony creaked beneath John’s quiet footsteps made his way over to the boy’s side.

Stiles turned and looked up at his father. He smiled weakly before looking back down at tea.

John grunted and groaned as he sat down next to Stiles.

“What’s up, kiddo?” he whispered.

“I don’t know what to do,” Stiles admitted. “There’s two days until the Reaping Ceremony, and I can’t sit back and watch another two kids be dragged into the Games.”

John sighed and gently patted his son’s knee.

He was lost for words; he had no experience with the Games and the only wisdom he had to share was the gut wrenching heartbreak he felt when he heard Allison and Scott’s names called and his son volunteer, but that wouldn’t help Stiles. Peter would be the one to ask, but – even though he had sobered up over the past year – he still wasn’t one for sensitive conversations or emotional support.

“The Games were the worst thing I’ve ever experienced: worse than losing mum or the fear of losing you every time a mine collapses,” Stiles admitted. “It’s not because I don’t love you – I do, more than anything,” Stiles babbled.

John gave the boy’s knee a gentle squeeze, trying to assure Stiles that he knew his son loved him and that he returned that insurmountable love.

“I told myself I wouldn’t let the Games change me, but I feel like they have. I just feel so scared, so angry and helpless. But it feels like more than that, more like… guilt, you know?” Stiles ventured, staring down at his calloused palms. He didn’t want to look his dad in the eye in fear that the man would judge him for his weaknesses. His voice dropped off as he searched for the right words. “I feel like it’s… I feel like I’ve lost something – some part of myself – a-and I can’t get it back.”

John sighed.

After years of raising Stiles on his own he had learnt that it was best just to tell him the truth, no matter how much it hurt.

“You can’t,” John whispered. “Not entirely.”

Stiles looked up at him, confused.

“It’s like when you break a glass,” John explained. “The pieces are still there and you can glue them together, but there will still be bits missing and you’ll still see the cracks. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t a glass.” He glanced at his son, his pale eyes full of love and worry as he met the boy’s glistening chestnut irises. “You might be a little broken, but you’re still you. All you need to do is pick up the pieces and put yourself back together.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Stiles whispered.

“You do. You’ve done it so many times before. It’s just that you’ve always been so focused on helping other people that you never realised you were doing it,” John explained.

Stiles bowed his head.

“Hey,” John whispered, setting a reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder. “We’re here for you. You know that, right?”

Stiles smiled weakly. “Of course I do.”

“We love you, Stiles. Even Peter does.”

Stiles screwed up his face at that comment and John couldn’t help but chuckle.

God, he looked like his mother sometimes: scared and confused, but still goofy and loving.

“Go back to bed, Stiles,” John instructed. “Curl up with Derek and try and get some more sleep. And when he wakes up to go hunting with Scott in the morning, tell him you love him.”

Stiles smiled and hid his blush in the soft folds of his blanket.

John smiled and continued, “Spend tomorrow with the people you love. The Reaping Ceremony isn’t for two days. The Games will be hard, I’m not going to lie, but you’ll have Peter and Derek to help you get through the experience of mentorship. And when the Games are done, you’ll come home and we’ll still be here for you.”

“Thanks, dad,” Stiles rasped.

John gently tousled his hair. He leant forward and pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“Come on, kiddo, it’s too cold and too early to be awake,” John muttered as he rose to his feet and walked back inside.

He heard Stiles sigh and follow him. John led the way upstairs, waiting for his son to toddle inside, close the door and hobble upstairs before turning to walk down the hallway. They said goodnight to each other before heading to their rooms. John lingered in the doorway, listening to Derek and Stiles talk in hushed voices before settling down to sleep.

John closed his bedroom door and shed his jacket and boots, crawling under the sheets.

 _They’ll be okay_ , John reassured himself. _We’ll all be okay_.

 

“Do you want us to get you anything?” Derek offered crossing the kitchen and taking the piece of bread that Melissa offered him.

“I could do with some more mint if you can find some,” Melissa replied. “And some honeycomb if you want to dare it.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Derek promised.

“Scott,” Isaac mumbled as he dragged himself into the kitchen. His sandy blonde hair was tousled by sleep and he was struggling to keep his eyes open.

“What are you doing up?” Scott asked, walking over to the boy’s side.

The boy rubbed at his eyes and muttered something under his breath.

“If you’re still tired then go back to bed,” Scott encouraged.

“I don’t want to go to bed alone,” Isaac slurred. “I get nightmares.”

“You can lie with Stiles until I get back if you want,” Derek whispered. “Just don’t wake him, okay? He’s really sleepy so I haven’t woken him to say goodbye.”

“Okay,” Isaac mumbled. “I won’t wake him.”

“Come on,” Derek said softly, wrapping his arm around Isaac’s shoulders and leading him back upstairs.

John finished off his breakfast and strapped on his boots. He shrugged on his jacket and rose to his feet.

Chris cleared away their dishes and brought them over to the sink. He dipped the chipped plates into the soapy water and washed them before sitting them upright in the rack to dry. He turned and pressed a kiss on Melissa’s cheek before joining John at the front door and shrugging on his jacket.

They farewelled everyone and stepped out into the brisk air.

Chris closed the front door behind them and joined John.

They walked in silence as they made their way across the District and towards the mines. Their heavy boots trudged through the muddy puddles and sludge of defrosting ice. They waved to the children who played in the streets, despite the icy bite of the morning air, and talking briefly to the stall owners and passing workers.

Occasionally, they would pass a small group of people who greeted them with smiles, but as they passed John could tell that there was something they were hiding: a fear for the children who were to face the fate of the Reaping Ceremony in a matter of days.

John wished he could find a way to reassure them that everything will go well, but they all knew that was a lie. There was a tension in the air that dispelled any sense of hope they grasped at.

A young man, smeared in thick black coal dust that had clung to his sweat-soaked skin, made his way over to them.

“You guys heading in?” he asked.

John and Chris nodded.

“Be careful in there,” he warned. “They’ve lined the walls with explosives to open up new tunnels.”

“What? Are they insane?” Chris argued. “If they hit a mineral stream they could set fire to the entire District, burn up all of the coal and destroy any sources of iron or precious minerals we may stumble upon.”

The man shrugged. “I tried to argue against it, but our current tunnels are running dry – we’re hitting bedrock at every turn – and the Capitol is busting Harris’ behind because we’re all getting desperate for resources. And if we don’t make our quota, we don’t get rations.”

“We’ll make our quota,” John assured the man. “And we will do it without risking lives and resources. I’ll go talk some sense into them.”

He set the hard hat atop his thinning hair and made his way down into the mines.

“Have you finished your shift?” Chris asked.

The man shook his head. “I’m on my five minute break. I just needed some fresh air, or as fresh as you can get in Twelve.”

Chris smirked and gently patted the young man’s shoulder before following John down into the dark tunnels of the mines. As he made his way down further and further into the darkness, the air became hotter and thinner. The halls of the mine shafts were held back by thick planks of wood, the support beams withering and bowing with age and strain. The halls weren’t well lit; the only source of light were grimy lamps that the miners carried or hung up on the walls.

He could hear the echoing chirp of a canary and the resonating sound of John’s voice as he argued with the man in charge, a slender reserved man by the name of Adrian Harris.

“I’m sorry, John,” Harris said. “But I’m just following orders from the Capitol.”

“The Capitol doesn’t know how to run a mine,” John replied, struggling to keep his voice calm and level. “If you detonate explosives you’re going to cave all the existing tunnels, cause hundreds of casualties, kill our men, burn up any recourses that we’re meant to mine and risk toppling the entire District when the ground sinks.”

“John, I understand that you’re still not over what happened to Rafael, but we need to make our quota,” the coal-smeared man argued.

“Don’t bring Rafe into this,” John snapped. He took a second to calm himself before he continued his argument, “And you’re not going to meet our quota if you burn up all the coal and minerals.”

“We’re desperate.”

Chris stepped over to John’s side, his eyes drawn to the small yellow bird that hopped about its cage while John continued, “Then dig a branching tunnel from the last place we found a seam, for Christ sake. Don’t go blowing up the mines and our District.”

“John,” Chris interrupted.

“What?” John asked, turning to face his friend.

His eyes were focused on the canary.

The bird stopped hopping about and sat still on its perch.

“He’s not singing,” Chris pointed out.

John’s heart skipped a beat.

“Evacuate the tunnels!” John shouted, his booming voice echoing down the mines shafts.

The men began to filter out in lines, holding their shirts to their mouths as they hurried out in an orderly fashion.

Chris and John stayed where they were, taking count of the miners and making sure the men made it out of the mines alright. Once the area was clear, Chris grabbed the cage and followed John out into the light of day.

Out in the open air, John grabbed the roster and began to check the men’s names off by memory.

“John?” Chris prompted, his patience wearing thin.

“All clear,” John announced.

Adrian moved about the gathering miners, checking on their conditions and sending them to the District hospital if they had the slightest hint of a cough. He stepped forward to check on John and Chris.

“We’re fine,” John assured him. “But it looks like your detonation is going to have to wait.”

The man nodded.

John’s steely determination didn’t change as he narrowed his glare at Harris and hissed, “And I still think it’s a stupid idea.”


	2. Chapter 2

They busied themselves drilling ventilation shafts into the mines and waited for a few hours.

After a while, John volunteered to go down into the mines. He took the canary down with him and cautiously taking step after step, listened to the small bird’s sweet chirps. He made his way deeper and deeper into the tunnels.

“All clear,” he called to the men.

They filtered back down into the mines and resumed their gruelling work.

Hour later, Chris and John trudged home through the streets of the District.

“You can take the first bath,” John offered.

“You sure?” Chris asked as they stepped over the large iron gate that was meant to stand before the Victor’s Village and bar entry but had fallen to the ground years ago.

“Yeah, I’ll just wash myself down outside and get changed while I wait,” John replied, dragging his hand down his worn face. He let out a defeated sigh and made his way around to the back of the house where he turned on the tap and washed down his hands, cleaning away the slag and grime that clung to his skin.

He watched as streams of black coursed his skin and pooled on the ground.

Melissa obviously heard him because she appeared at the back door with a towel.

John took the towel from her with a kind smile and a quiet thank you. He patted down his skin, revealing the tan flesh that laid beneath the layers of coal.

“Everything okay?” she asked, looking at John with concern.

The man let out a defeated sigh. “Yeah, just your usual run-of-the-mill idiotic nonsense from Harris. Where are the others?”

“Scott’s down at the market trading in their hunt, Derek’s reading to Isaac and Peter’s helping me get dinner ready,” Melissa answered.

“And Stiles?” John asked, his heart skipping slightly.

“Peter said he was called over to the Justice Building for something,” Melissa replied. “He should be home soon.”

“Okay,” John said quietly. “I’ll go get changed and give you a hand if you’d like.”

“That’d be nice, thank you.”

John stopped in the doorway and pulled off his boots and his socks. He made his way inside and upstairs, changing out of his dirty clothes and pulling on a new pair of pants and one of his old, faded tee-shirts with holes in it. Lydia was still confused about why he wore it – considering he had a whole wardrobe to choose from – and he never had the right answer: maybe it was because he didn’t want to get his new shirts dirty before his bath or maybe it was because it was so worn down and comfortable that it just felt right.

Melissa brought him a bottle of her perfume, a berry scented concoction that she made a few days ago. It wasn’t as ‘manly’ as the expensive colognes that the District officials would wear but it was better than the bitter stench of coal and was a pleasant scent for all of them, especially Isaac – who could be unbelievably picky about such things.

John carried all of his dirty clothes into the small laundry room and soaked them in a bucket of water before making his way into the kitchen.

He set the kettle over the stove to boil and helped Peter slice vegetables and get dinner ready for both the shelter and their household. When the water finished boiling, he made a cup of tea for all of them, setting one aside for himself, passing one to Peter and then walking the cups in to the lounge room for Chris and Melissa – who Peter had ordered out of the kitchen to rest – and then to Isaac and Derek in the small little alcove they called the ‘reading room’.

Isaac was curled up against Derek’s side with his favourite book spread across his lap. He ran his finger back and forth over the page as he followed the words, not that he needed to; he had long since memorised the entirety of _The Little Prince_. He knew the story word for word, and yet his eyes still sparkled with joy every time he picked it up. Every time was a new time for him: the words were captivating and the story was invigorating.

He had tried other books but some were too long and others weren’t fun enough. No matter how many books you offered him, he always came back to _The Little Prince_. He loved everything about it: the pictures, the little prince, the adventurous story and especially the fox.

His copy of _The Little Prince_ was slightly tattered: the pages had been thumbed smooth by how many times Isaac and Derek had read it, the dark blue canvas cover was fraying, and some of the pages were barely hanging onto the binding.

Derek and Peter had both offered to have the book rebound but Isaac seemed content with the worn copy.

This was their routine, after they had both done their chores and Derek had gone hunting or to see the little baby girl that he and Stiles had adopted, Laura, and then they would sit and read.

Isaac still asked Derek to read to him sometimes, especially if he wanted a story with funny voices, but he was desperately trying to get better at reading the books himself. He had promised a few weeks ago that he would get so good at reading that he could read to little Laura; he really wanted to read her _The Little Prince_ so that she could love it as much as he does.

The sight made John smile.

Isaac had warmed up to the older boy so well and both Derek and Stiles were going to be a brilliant fathers.

 _We’ll be okay_ , he reminded himself. _We’ll get through anything together._

 

“Hey, kiddo?” John called quietly, stepping over to the boy’s side. “Stiles?”

The boy hadn’t said a word since he came back from the Justice Building and he hadn’t slept either. Derek had to carry him to bed last night but when they woke the next morning Stiles had dragged his feet into the lounge room, slumped down on one of the arm chairs and zoned out of existence. He was unresponsive as he stared into the void.

Stiles had seemed to notice when Peter and Melissa tried to get his attention to try and get him to eat or bathe, but no-one seemed able to stir him from his trance.

“Stiles?” John whispered, setting his hand on the boy’s frail shoulder.

Stiles jumped and spun around.

“Are you okay?” his father asked.

“I’m fine,” Stiles responded by instinct. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you’ve been staring at the wall for hours,” John pointed out

“It’s an interesting wall,” Stiles replied without missing a beat.

“Isaac’s been trying to get your attention,” Derek said softly. “You’ve been catatonic.”

Stiles’ expression sunk as his eyes filled with guilt. He met Derek’s pale eyes. His voice broke a little as he spoke, repeating, “I’m fine.”

They didn’t believe him and he knew it, but he quickly dodged any further questions and the worried gazes of the men who stood around him by turning his attention to Isaac.

“What’s up, buddy?”

“Derek’s going to see Laura,” Isaac muttered. “Can I please read to you?”

“Sure,” Stiles said with a smile.

He rose from his seat and followed Isaac into the study. Derek followed, waiting in the doorway as the boys readied themselves.

John let out a heart-broken sigh as he watched them go.

“He’s going to be okay,” Chris assured him.

“I just… I can’t read him anymore,” John admitted. “When he was a kid, I used to be able to read his expressions or his voice. I’d know every thought that crossed his mind – when he was lying, when he was upset, when he was happy – and now… now, I can’t. Ever since Claudia, it all just blends into one constant mask, like he’s scared to show any emotion.”

“He was young,” Chris whispered. “He didn’t know how to deal with trauma.”

“And I wasn’t there to help him,” John muttered.

“You were.”

John shook his head. “I wasn’t. I was never there. I was either in the mines, in a drink or in a blind rage. He needed me and I wasn’t there for him.”

“You’re there for him now,” Peter argued, his sudden appearance shocking the men. “I know a thing or two about trauma and putting on a mask to protect those around you. He’s scared to show you how broken he is because he still thinks he needs to be strong. It’s a natural response and one that will pass, you just have to be there for him when it does. Because when those walls come crashing down, he’s going to need you.”

The victor’s gaze drifted towards the study, watching Derek say goodbye to Stiles and Isaac as they curled up to read.

“He’s a strong kid,” Peter continued. “But he’s been through a lot and it comes at a price.”

He turned and looked at John.

“He’ll be okay,” Peter assured him. “He gets his resilience from you.”

The victor smirked and walked into the kitchen.

“Are you two ready to leave?” Melissa asked, stepping up to Chris and John’s side.

“Do you need anything else for the hospital before we leave?” Chris inquired, looking down at the small bag of supplies.

“No, the stock came in yesterday. I’ve just got to put everything away and redress a few wounds before coming home again. I thought you two had the day off?”

“We’ve got to make sure that Harris doesn’t go ahead with the dumbest plan in history,” John explained. “Just keep a few beds clear because if he does go through with it, there’ll be a lot of casualties and I’ll make Harris one of them.”

“John,” Chris said warningly.

John drew in a deep breath and calmed himself. “Okay, let’s get going.”

 

John, Chris and Adrian were in the middle of another heated discussion when he heard the crescendo of noise, the loud rumbling of car engines and the familiar sound of roaring fire. Pained cries and fearful shrieks filled the air and echoed throughout the District.

Chris and John let the conversation drop as they turned and ran back into the marketplace.

Their shoes struck the ground with a thundering beat. Their hearts pounded against their ribs and their lungs burnt, desperate for air, as they sprinted out into the centre of the District.

Armed guards in heavy armour hurled people out of their houses and into the street. They tore through the houses, emptying drawers, hurling toys and treasured belongings into the mud and shattering glasses of rations, oil and water before igniting the piles.

John felt his heart sink into his gut.

Smoke and ash filled his lungs as he ran, making him cough and gasp breathlessly. His nose was filled with the bitter scent of ash and the rich scent of burning pine.

He sprinted down the street, weaving through the gathering crowd of people.

He pulled up to a halt by the shelter, grabbing Bobby Finstock by the arm. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” the man replied. “They just stormed the District and started this mess.”

“Where’s Laura?” John panicked.

“Derek has her,” Coach assured him. “He and Stiles are trying to get everyone into the main square.”

“Where’s Stiles?” John asked.

“He went to help Melissa at the hospital,” Coach answered, stepping away from the man and jogging on the spot impatiently. “I need to go and get my son.”

“Go,” John whispered.

“John,” Chris called from over the man’s shoulder. “The hospital.”

John turned around, his pale eyes falling upon the burning inferno that consumed his old house. The roaring orange glow consumed the building, the tendril-like flames flickering as they devoured the wooden planks and the frail lace curtains.

The heat of the blaze radiated against his skin as hot tears welled up in his eyes.

 _It’s gone_ , he thought. _It’s all gone… Claudia_.

Tears streaked his cheeks as he watched on helplessly. His heart sank into his stomach as the fire destroyed his home and the memories of Claudia along with it.

His heart pounded in his ears as his cries were hushed by the roaring flaming.

Then another thought struck him. His voice caught in his throat, strained as the smoke burnt at his lungs.

“Melissa,” he gasped. “Melissa! Stiles!”

He picked up his heels and sprinted towards the burning building.

“Stiles!”

“Dad,” Stiles cried, leaping to his feet and running to his father’s side. He fell into the man’s arms, his weak fists clawing at the man’s shirt.

John wrapped his arms around the boy, cradling him against his chest and holding him tightly – afraid to let him go. He cupped the back of the boy’s head, burying his face in the mess of his hair. He felt heavy tears well in his eyes as he held the boy close.

 _He’s_ okay, John told himself. _Thank God, he’s okay._

“Is anyone else inside?” Chris asked Melissa, grabbing a bandage and helping Melissa tend to the wounded man.

She shook her head and replied, “No, Scott got them out.”

Stiles flinched. He pulled back from his dad and looked around. “Where’s Scott?”

No sooner had the words left his mouth did they hear an all-too-familiar cry of agony.

“Scott!” Stiles howled, sprinting back through the streets and towards the main square.

“Stiles,” John called after him, but the boy didn’t seem to hear him.

“Go,” Melissa instructed.

John hesitated, looking from his son to Melissa.

“I’ll stay with her,” Chris assured him before repeating her instructions, “Go.”

John nodded and raced off after his son.

His stomach churned as the bitter scent of charred wood and metallic blood burnt at his nostrils.

He felt his heart ache and sink into his gut as a loud crack split the air and Scott cried out in pain.

Stiles disappeared out of his sight as he pushed through the crowd and burst into the town centre before the Justice Building.

John pulled up to a halt beside Derek.

“What’s going on?” he asked the young man.

“Take her,” Derek instructed, carefully passing Laura to her grandfather.

The noise and chaos had disturbed her. Her glittering green eyes were squinted shut, her chubby cheeks were crimson and streaked with glistening tears and a heart-breaking wail fell past her lips.

John adjusted his hold on her, cradling her against his chest and whispering softly to her.

Her cries died away slightly as she nuzzled her face into his shirt but her soft tears still fell from her eyes, soaking the warn cotton of John’s shirt.

John lifted his gaze to the horrific sight that everyone couldn’t look away from.

Scott was chained around a large post, his shirt torn from his back and his olive flesh sliced open by the straps of a whip. Streams of blood covered his back as he heaved in heavy, ragged breaths. His eyes were heavy and his eyelids fluttered as he struggled to stay conscious.

A man stepped forward. His armour was that of the captain of the guard, but he wasn’t the same man that had worked in District Twelve over the years. The man tightened his grip around the leather handle of his cat-of-nine-tales.

Stiles stood between the two, a stream of blood trickling from where one of the lead beads had spilt his cheek. His shoulders heaved as he drew in sharp breaths through his gritted teeth. He stood his ground and glared at the man.

“You want another?” the captain of the guard growled, his blood-splattered face pulled back into a cynical grin.

Stiles didn’t flinch.

“Go ahead,” Stiles dared.

Derek tried to race forward, but Peter pranced out from the mass of people and caught his nephew’s arm.

“So be it,” the peacekeeper hissed, raising his arm again.

“Wait,” Peter called, racing into the centre of the space. He stopped before Stiles, shielding the boy with his body. “You don’t want to do that.”

“I think I do,” the man argued.

“Look, I understand you’re new here, but I am trying to help you,” Peter said calmly. “Do you recognise him? That’s Stiles Stilinski: victor of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games and darling of the Capitol.”

“He intervened with a peacekeeper,” the captain of the guard shouted.

“I never said he was smart,” Peter pointed out.

Another figure sprinted into the space.

The peacekeeper drew his gun.

John felt his heart skip a beat and his breath fall short of his lips. If he wasn’t holding onto Laura, he would have rushed in and ended it all. He wasn’t a man for violence, but he would do anything to protect his family.

Peter turned and shoved Derek behind him, shielding all of the boys as Derek pulled Stiles into his arms.

“Listen, you got a couple of hits in, let’s leave it at that before things get out of hand,” Peter bargained.

The man glared past Peter at Stiles.

“Fine, but I don’t care who he is, the next time he intervenes, it’s a firing squad,” the captain of the guard growled. He turned and surveyed the crowd before bellowing, “You are all under curfew. Anyone who is caught outside after dark will be shot on sight!”

The crowd quickly dissipated as people scurried back to their houses.

John stood still, holding Laura close as he tried desperately to calm his racing heartbeat.

Peter let out a heavy sigh of relief before turning back to the boys. He nodded towards Scott and whispered, “Get him out of there.”

Stiles and Derek scurried forward, each unfastening one of the latches that pinned down Scott’s arms.

“I don’t think he can walk,” Stiles whispered, fear and worry flooding his veins.

“I’ll carry him,” Derek offered.

“He’s not as light as Isaac,” Stiles pointed out.

“It’s okay. I can carry him,” Derek assured him. “Help me lift him onto my back.”

Scott gasped and hissed as movement caused his body to radiate with pain.

“Put your arms around my neck,” Derek instructed, lifting Scott onto Derek’s back and coiled the younger boy’s lender legs around his waist.

“Get him home,” Peter instructed, helping Derek to his feet. “I’ll get Melissa.”

Scott was blinking heavily. His blurry vision was half-focused on Stiles as he mumbled something.

John watched them rush down the streets and back towards the Village.

Peter made his way over to John’s side. He leant forward and carefully pulled back the blanket to look at Laura’s face. “Is she okay?”

“Scared but unharmed,” John answered. “And Scott?”

“It doesn’t look good,” Peter admitted. “But Scott’s a strong kid with a lot to live for, he’ll hold on. And Stiles is a smart kid, he knows what he’s doing and he cares about Scott too much to let him go.”

John swallowed hard, staring across the place to where the boys had run off.

“Okay, come on,” Peter said quietly, nodding towards the dying fire that consumed the District hospital. “The sick and injured can stay at the shelter. We can help tend to the wounded. The sooner we get through the casualties, the sooner Melissa can get home and help Stiles take care of Scott.”

John nodded.

He admired Peter for his steely composure in the moment of chaos.

Peter levelled his cool blue eyes with John’s and calmly said, “We need to find Melissa.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Direct any casualties to the shelter,” Melissa instructed. “There’s some medical supplies there and some more back in the Village. If possible, find any clothes or rags that could be spared and used as bandages. Share blankets and beds so we can accommodate as many people as possible. Get some clean water and make sure everyone has a drink.”

“Melissa,” John called.

The woman spun around.

John froze.

He hadn’t noticed before, but now that she was in a different lighting he could see the thick gash taken out of her cheek, dried blood streaking her pale skin and a heavy bruise that marred her cheekbone.

John carefully stepped forward and cupped her cheek in his hand. He brushed his thumb across her soft skin, his eyes full of worry and pain.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “It’s nothing.”

John sighed.

His mind snapped back to focus as he remembered why he was there.

“Scott’s hurt, badly.”

“Stiles and Derek have taken him home and they’re going to take care of him the best they can until you get home,” Peter explained.

“Okay,” Melissa muttered.

John noticed how her eyes glimmered as her heart was torn in two.

“Laura,” she whispered, stepping forward to look at the baby. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” John assured her, showing her the baby’s face. “Derek kept her safe and out of harm’s way. She’s just cried herself to sleep.”

Laura looked at peace in the security of her grandfather’s arms, smacking her lips and weakly balling her fists around nothing as she snuggled into his warmth.

“What happened?” Peter asked, bringing over a cool, wet rag and gently dabbing at the bruise on Melissa’s cheek with tender precision, careful not to hurt her.

“Capitol’s orders apparently,” Melissa answered. “They stormed the District and burnt houses and resources. They set fire to the District hospital with people still inside. Scott and I rushed to get everyone out, but the captain of the guard saw our actions as insolence and hit me. Scott and one of my patients got mad and picked a fight. The patient got hurt and I had to stay with him while Scott chased after the peacekeepers. I don’t know what happened after that.”

“What happened was he was strapped to a lashing post and whipped within an inch of his life,” Peter told her. “And when Stiles intervened, the captain threatened to do the same to him.”

“Or make it quick and shoot him,” John added.

“Is they okay?” Melissa asked, panicked.

“They’re fine,” Peter assured her. “Stiles has a cut on his cheek but he’s solely focused on Scott right now. He’s a smart kid who loves Scott like a brother, he’ll take care of him. Our boys are strong, they’ll be okay.”

“Okay.” Melissa drew in a deep breath and tried to compose herself. “Peter, I need you to run ahead. Tell Stiles and Derek to use the aloe vera cream in the cupboard and clean his wounds with water – alcohol might be a little too painful if he’s in as bad of a condition as you say. If the bleeding doesn’t stop, get towels and soak it up. If the swelling is bad, make an ice blanket.”

“Melissa,” Peter interrupted. “Take a deep breath. You’ve taught them everything you know. They’ll take good care of him. I’ll help – my knowledge of plants and tonics has got to count for something. You’re needed here, so just stay calm and do what you do best. It’ll all be okay.”

Melissa looked up at him, eyes sparkling as she smiled weakly.

Peter wasn’t one for emotional moments, but he had a soft spot for Melissa.

“I’ll stay here with you,” Chris offered.

Melissa nodded.

“I’ll head out onto the streets and help everyone find shelter before curfew,” Bobby announced. “I’ll talk to some people and see if they can spare some room to the homeless.”

“I’ll help,” John added.

Coach’s son stepped forward from behind his father’s legs.

“I can take Laura back to the shelter,” he offered. “I’ll keep her safe.”

John smiled at the young boy and whispered, “That sounds great.”

He knelt down and carefully handed the boy the blanket-clad infant.

The boy whispered softly to Laura as he carefully walked into the shelter.

“Now that that’s sorted, let’s get going,” Peter said calmly. He turned and looked at Melissa, his harsh exterior weakening as he whispered, “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

 

It was hours before everyone returned home.

John found Stiles sitting by the table, holding Scott’s hand and refusing to leave his friend’s side. He and Derek had cleaned and treated Scott’s wounds and had shown initiative and made Scott an ice blanket to reduce the swelling and encourage healing, but the older teen was still unconscious.

John and Melissa retreated to the kitchen, getting dinner ready for everyone and quietly talking about how they were going to deal with the demand of beds and supplies in the shelter.

Isaac was in his play room upstairs, his quiet footsteps pattering across the floor above them while Peter and Chris watched over him.

Derek was by the front door, pulling on his new favourite leather jacket and a pair of thick boots. He grabbed the small metal bucket and headed out to get another bucketful of icy slush for Scott’s ice pack.

The familiar thump of Peter’s feet echoed through the quiet house as he came back downstairs.

The man paused in the doorway, looking at Stiles and Scott with concern.

“How is he?” he asked quietly.

“The swelling is starting to go down,” Stiles reported. “He’s stopped bleeding and some of the smaller cuts are already healing. It’ll take a week or so before the other cuts begin to heal.”

Peter nodded thoughtfully. “And how are you?”

Stiles didn’t reply.

John stepped over to the kitchen doorway and watched on, silent.

“Did you get you get Melissa to look at your cheek?” Peter pressed.

Stiles nodded slightly.

The man’s lips quivered slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but before Peter had the chance to speak, the television blinked on in the other room. The Capitol anthem blared through the speakers and echoed throughout the house.

“What the hell?” Peter started.

Stiles released his hold on Scott’s hand and rose to his feet, following Peter through to the living room.

Scott stirred from the noise and Melissa rushed to his side. John brought her a glass of water for Scott to drink before trailing after Stiles and Peter. He stopped and waited in the doorway.

The Capitol emblem was stretched across the television screen with bold letters set around it:

 

CAPITOL BROADCAST.

MANDATORY VIEWING.

ATTENTION, PEOPLE OF BEACON HILLS.

 

The image faded, replaced by the face of President Deucalion. His pale grey eyes stared down the camera, their lack of colour emphasised by the vibrant sapphire fabric of his military jacket that was lined with golden trim. The stiff collar sat upright and framed his narrow throat, emphasising his sleek jawline. His face was worn with lines of age, creasing his cheeks, shaping his brow and hollowing out his eyes.  His hook nose stood out and his long chestnut brown hair had been styled back in hopes of making him look more presentable. His chin was shadowed by the slight scruff of a beard. A crisp white rose was pinned to his chest while several other roses were stacked in vases and set atop his desk. Before him was a small microphone, the gleaming silver metal matching the surroundings and the golden trim of the decorations and carved features behind him.

He maintained his stern expression and emotionless composure as he spoke, “Citizens of Beacon Hills, I have an announcement to make. To mark the momentous occasion of the seventy-fifth anniversary of the passing of the Dark Days, and as a reminder to the rebels and revolutionaries that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, this year’s Hunger Games will be a little different. The tributes of the Quarter Quell will be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”

John’s stomach sank into his gut, his lungs burning for air as tears of pain prickled at his eyes.

“No,” he muttered weakly, his lips quivering as his gaze darted towards his son.

Stiles’ limbs trembled, his hands quivering and his face twisted into an expression of pain and fear as he receded into his shell.

Deucalion continued his speech, explaining how recent ‘senseless and unwarranted’ rebellions had left Districts without two or more victors and, as a result of such ‘loses’, one or both of the tributes would be reaped from the citizens of the Districts regardless of their age or gender.

The man’s face twisted into a cynical smile as he said, “Good luck, and a happy Hunger Games to you all.”

Stiles’ legs fell from beneath him.

Peter caught the boy before he hit the floor. He lifted Stiles back up onto his own two feet and steadied him, turning him around to level his eyes with the boy.

Stiles choked on shallow breaths.

The name fell past his lips instinctively, as if he couldn’t help it.

“Derek.”

Stiles gently pushed aside Peter’s hands and stumbled towards the door.

“Stiles,” John called after him, but the boy was gone.

His legs toppled beneath him as he leapt out into the front yard. He sprinted through the mud and puddles, limbs flailing about as he ran in the general direction of the perimeter fence.

He spotted a familiar figure a few meters away.

“Derek!”

The older boy set down the rusty old bucket and caught Stiles as he collapsed into his arms.

Tears streaked Stiles’ cheeks as he babbled incomprehensibly, his body shaking violently from the violent sobs. His hot tears seeped through the soft cotton of Derek’s shirt, his fists weakly grabbing at the fabric as he collapsed against Derek’s broad chest.

Derek held him close and gently shushed him. He cradled the back of Stiles’ head and held him in the comfort of his strong arms. His other arm was wound around the boy’s slender waist, holding him upright as Stiles’ frail legs caved under him.

“I know,” John heard Derek whisper. “I heard.”

Stiles let out a strained whimper and wailed, “I can’t go back. I can’t do it again.”

John bowed his head, his heart aching and his stomach churning nauseatingly. He heard Derek whisper softly to Stiles, trying to calm the boy, but it didn’t seem to work.

“We’ll be okay,” Derek promised. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

“It’s my fault,” Stiles cried.

“No, it’s not,” Derek said softly, holding the boy closer.

Peter joined John in the doorway, his pained eyes focused on the boys.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered.

“It’s not your fault,” Peter muttered weakly. “There’s nothing we can do now. We just have to face what happens.”

John wound his arms around the victor’s shoulders and pulled him into a comforting hug. Peter froze for a moment, his body stiffening at the sudden show of compassion, but he didn’t fight it. He slowly weakened and returned the hug.

John knew Peter needed it; he was in danger too. And after it had taken him so long to recover from his experiences in the Games, he wasn’t ready to step back into the arena.

They were finally a family, they were finally at peace, and now it was all falling apart.

John was losing them.

And as terrifying as those thoughts were, nothing was as heart-breaking as what they heard Stiles whimper.

“He’s out to kill me.”


	4. Chapter 4

The family were gathered around the lounge room, some were sitting, some were hunched over to lean on the chairs or back against the walls, and some were too anxious to stop moving – pacing up and down the length of the room instead.

Stiles sat down on the couch, staring at the varnished grain of the coffee table.

Derek sat next to him, holding his hand as he talked quietly to his uncle.

Peter was indecisive of where he should be, pacing back and forth across the room before leaning against the back of the couch for a few minutes only to return to his anxious strut about the confined space.

“Do you even count as a victor?” Peter asked Derek. “I mean, Stiles was the one who was announced as the victor, but you did survive the Games.”

“I don’t know,” Derek muttered weakly.

“He counts,” a quiet voice said from the doorway.

All eyes turned to Lydia.

Her eyes were red with tears and her cheeks glistened as she tried to deny the fact she was crying. Her heels clicked across the wooden floorboards as she stepped inside the room and produced a crisp white piece of paper. She held it up before herself and read the line of interest, “’As the Capitol representative for District Twelve, you are to ensure that the victors – Peter Hale, Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale – are all gathered and present for the Reaping Ceremony of the Quarter Quell’.”

Her voice broke and her composure fractured as another wave of tears overcame her.

Melissa leapt from her seat and pulled Lydia into her arms. She cradled the girl to her chest and held her close as the she cried, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Melissa led her out of the room and upstairs to Lydia’s bedroom. Stiles heard the door shut behind them as Lydia began to cry and Melissa did her best to comfort her.

“Okay, so, it’s the three of us,” Derek reiterated. “However this turns out, we’re going into the Games with someone we can trust. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

“I know a lot of the previous victors,” Peter chimed in. “And a lot of them will be more than happy to forge alliances.”

“Alliances or not, you’ll have the District and the third victor. We’ll send any care packages that you’ll need,” Chris added from the corner of the room.

“No,” Derek refused softly. “Twelve just lost half their resources, things are going to be rough for the next few weeks. We can’t ask you all to forfeit what’s left of your rations to pay for a care package. We’ll be okay on our own.”

“And we’ll have sponsors,” Peter added. “A lot of people in the Capitol love the two of you and will be more than willing to help get you though it if you’re together or get you back to each other if you’re split up.”

Derek gave Stiles’ hand a gentle squeeze and said, “We’ll be okay.”

“We just have to wait until tomorrow to find out who’s going into the Games,” Chris muttered.

Stiles swallowed hard and looked up at them for the first time since the announcement and asked, “Who’s going to tell Isaac?”

 

John stood in the doorway of Isaac’s playroom, watching as the boy sat cross-legged on the floor and played with the little whittled wooden figurines, pet rocks and various other toys that he had kept for himself.

He didn’t want to do this, but considering how the others were coping with the news, he was the only one who could.

Stiles was traumatised beyond the ability of speech, returning to his earlier state of vacant staring.

Peter was panicking and Derek was trying to keep his uncle calm while comforting Stiles.

Chris was fighting back the horrific memories of Allison and everything that happened in last year’s Games. He tried to busy himself by finishing dinner or tending to Scott.

Melissa was trying to distract herself by caring for Lydia and Scott. She would have been the best to breach the sensitive subject but John knew that if she stopped trying to care for others for one second then reality would set in and she wouldn’t cope. She wouldn’t be able to do it, not after she came so close to losing Scott to the Games last year, then again to peacekeepers this year. Then she lost Stiles and Allison to the Games and only one came back, and now she risked losing either Stiles, Derek or Peter.

So, as hard as it was for John, he was the only one who could compose himself long enough to talk. In other words, he drew the short straw.

The man let out a heavy sigh and stepped inside the room. He closed the door behind himself and sat down across from Isaac. He took in the sight of the boy’s peaceful ignorance and his bright smile.

He sighed, his heart aching as he wished he could let that moment last forever, or at least a little longer.

It took a moment but Isaac finally noticed his presence. He looked up at the man, sapphire eyes glittering with confusion as he looked at John’s crestfallen expression.

“I’ve got some bad news,” John admitted, keeping his voice low and quiet. He thought about it for a moment but quickly decided it would be best just to tell the boy the truth straight out and deal with his reaction as it came. “An announcement has just been made and the rules for the Hunger Games have changed this year.”

Isaac looked worried, the sight of his fear driving a dagger through John’s chest.

“They’re not going to be selecting citizens like you and Scott this year,” John explained. “Instead, they’re going to pick the tributes out of the victors: Peter, Derek and Stiles.”

Isaac’s expression contorted into a twisted mess of pain, fear and heartbreak. Tears welled in his eyes and coursed his cheeks as he let out a heartbroken wail.

“No!”

John leant forward and pulled the boy into his arms, cupping the back of his head and pressing soft kisses into the mess of his golden curls as he whispered sweet nothings in an attempt to sooth the boy.

“No, they can’t!” Isaac cried. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair! I don’t want them to go.”

Isaac grabbed at John’s shirt, balling the fabric into his fists and gently pummelling the man’s chest, indecisive of whether he should pull the man closer and cry more, push him away and run to someone else or just thrash about and throw a tantrum like the child he was.

“It’ll be okay.” John whispered, not believing the words himself but hoping they would calm the boy. “We’ll find a way to get through this. We always do.”

“No,” Isaac screamed. “I don’t want them to go. I don’t want them to go!”

 

Derek laid awake in the large bed, smothered by warm blankets and listening to the quiet of the night.

Stiles had silently cried himself to sleep in the older boy’s arms but Derek couldn’t settle; his mind was too busy with the swarming thoughts of what awaited them in the morning.

It had been hours and he still couldn’t calm his mind enough to sleep.

He looked down at the boy curled up in his arms, watching his shoulders rise and fall with his sleepy breaths. He gently ran his fingers through Stiles’ hair.

Among the quiet of the night, Derek heard the familiar sound of a bedroom door opening and quiet footsteps pattering about the house, skilfully dodging the whining floorboards and trying to stay as quiet as possible as not to disturb anyone else in the house.

The young man sighed and pressed a kiss to the crown of Stiles’ head, carefully settling the boy down among the blankets and trying not to wake him. He rose from his bed and pulled on his jacket and his boots before making his way downstairs and out onto the balcony.

Isaac sat on the steps, his face still wet with tears as he sniffed back his broken sobs.

He pulled his blanket tight around his slender shoulders and tucked his knees up to his chest.

Derek crossed the balcony and sat down next to the boy.

“What’s up, buddy?” he whispered.

“I don’t want you to go,” Isaac mumbled.

Derek reached across and pulled the boy into his arms.

“You know what? I’m glad that Stiles, Peter and I are going because that means you and Scott are safe,” Derek said quietly.

“But I don’t want you to go,” the boy repeated. “You’re family now and finally happy.”

“We’ll always be family,” Derek promised.

“But what if something happens? What if you don’t come back this time?” Isaac sobbed.

Derek shuffled forwards and ran his fingers across the dusty wooden boards, scribbling something in the thin layer of dust.

“My parents taught me this when I was younger,” Derek said quietly, drawing three spirals that met at a central point: a triskelion. “They told me it was a sign of unity, a bond, that means many different things: mother, father and child or mind, body and spirit. But I like to think of it as family: past, present and future. And the bit in the middle shows that they always come back in the end. Even if they die, they’re still with you.”

Isaac looked up at him.

“It’s like the fox,” Derek continued. “You make bonds and those bonds don’t break or fade. Once you’re family, you’re family forever. And no matter what happens, we will always be family.”

“Promise?” Isaac asked quietly.

Derek smiled sweetly, pulling the boy into his arms and holding him close. “I promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

When dawn broke over the District, everything was silent. There was an unspoken tension that settled over every household. It was a little different this year; no-one was worried about losing their children like they had feared every year since the beginning of the Games, but rather a fear because they knew who was going and no-one wanted them to leave. While a lot of people had issues with Peter, he was an accepted part of the community, as was Derek. But everyone had known Stiles since he was born. He was a vivid part of their community: a selfless boy who gave everything for others, regardless of who they were or whether he knew them.

It was heart-breaking, but they all knew that there was nothing they could do to change what was about to happen.

They went about their morning routine without saying more than a few words to each other, moving by habit and getting ready for the Reaping Ceremony like they did every other year: bathing, dressing, eating breakfast, saying good morning to everyone as he made his way down to the dining room, one of them redundantly polishing everyone’s shoes while everyone else gets ready and no-one daring to disrupt those who were alone in their thoughts.

Scott was back on his feet and moving about, slowly.

Stiles sat at the table and stared at the food that Peter set before him, but he didn’t eat it. He surrendered his breakfast to Isaac, who seemed reluctant to take it but, in the end, his hunger won him over. Stiles stayed where he sat at the end of the table, hanging his head and sitting in silence.

“What’s happening with Laura?” Melissa asked, keeping her voice low so no-one overheard.

“Bobby Finstock’s bringing her,” John answered. “He’ll drop by the Justice Building so the three of them can say goodbye to her before they leave.”

A year ago, he wouldn’t have let the man near his granddaughter, but over the past year Finstock and Peter had both sobered up and become part of the District again. And when the drunken rage disappeared, they were peaceful men who both loved Laura dearly.

Bobby still had his house and his son, but they chose to live in the shelter and let out their house as a way of helping out those who needed it. And it was because of his constant care down at the shelter that Derek and Stiles agreed that until the adoption was passed, Coach was to be Laura’s guardian.

John looked across the kitchen and into the dining room, his weary eyes focusing on Stiles.

The boy hadn’t moved or spoken all morning. He sat at the table, staring at the tabletop as he wiped the layers of dirt and coal from their shoes and redundantly buffed them.

Melissa stepped forward and rested her hand on his shoulder.

John sighed and nodded. He stepped forward and let his heavy hand fall on Stiles’ slender shoulder as he whispered, “It’s time.”

Stiles sighed and rose to his feet.

They trudged down the streets, blending into the crowd of people that streamed out of their houses and into District Twelve. They all gathered in centre of town, where armed peacekeepers stepped forwards to escort Lydia and the victors up to the stage.

Melissa held Stiles close, fighting back tears and not wanting to let go. The boy returned her hug, gently patting down her raven curls and whispering reassuring words of how everything will be okay.

Peter even softened enough to give everyone a hug goodbye.

John felt his heart shatter as he watched on helplessly as the boys say goodbye to each other. Derek had to lift Isaac into his arms and hold him there while he said goodbye to Scott, the younger boy refusing to let go. After he said goodbye to Scott and Melissa, he set Isaac down on his feet and crouched down to level his gaze with the boy.

“Hey,” he said softly. “It’s going to be okay. You have Melissa and John and Chris and Scott and they’re all going to take care of you.”

“But I want you to read to me,” Isaac sobbed, rubbing at his tear-filled eyes.

“Listen to me,” Derek cooed, gently pulling the boy’s hands away from his face. “You’re a brilliant reader and you can do it all on your own now. But I might have to go away now, so I need to ask you to do something. I need you to give Laura lots of cuddles and kisses from Stiles and I, and I want you to read to her.”

“You think I can?” Isaac asked.

“I know you can” Derek whispered, leaning forward and pressing a delicate kiss to the crown of the boy’s head. “Be good, okay?”

Isaac nodded and took a step back, clinging to Melissa.

Derek turned and said his goodbyes to John and Chris before taking a step back.

Peter turned to Melissa and pulled her into his arms.

She returned the hug, fighting back tears as she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

As he pulled back, Isaac leapt forward and quickly coiled his arms around Peter’s slender body.

Peter’s composure fractured, tears welling in his eyes as he smiled and returned the boy’s hug. He pressed a kiss to the top of the boy’s head and whispered, “Take care of them, okay?”

Isaac nodded, biting into his lip to hide his tears.

Melissa pulled the boy back into her arms and let Peter turn to Chis and John. He smiled at the men and said, “Thank you. You showed me how to live a better life and taught me what it meant to have a family. I had been alone for so long and you’re better than I deserve, but thank you.”

John stepped forward and pulled the man into his arms.

Peter welcomed the hug this time.

Melissa held Stiles close, fighting back tears and not wanting to let go. But finally she did.

Stiles took a step back and turned to look at John.

“Dad,” he rasped.

“Yes?”

“Will you promise me something?” he whispered.

“Anything,” his father replied.

“Promise me you won’t salute. Promise me you won’t let anyone salute,” Stiles begged.

John swallowed hard and blinked back his tears before he nodded.

“I promise.”

Stiles gave him one last quick hug, holding the boy close and trying to treasure every last second: trying to memorise how he felt and how he looked – the soft cotton of his hand-me-down dress shirt, the warmth that radiated form his frail body, the soft mess of unkempt hair, how his dark eyes sparkled with emotion just like Claudia’s did, his mannerisms and over-exaggerated expressions, his snarky remarks and unmatchable levels of sarcasm, and everything in between.

But finally, he had to let him go.

Stiles took a step back and joined Peter and Derek.

“Stiles, wait,” Scott called after him.

Stiles paused and turned back to his friend.

Scott carefully unfastened Allison’s locket from his neck and secured it around Stiles’.

“You need it more than I do,” Scott whispered and gave Stiles one last hug.

“Take care of them, Scott,” Stiles muttered. He pulled back and looked his friend in the eye as he added, “However this turns out, I’m glad you were my brother.”

“You too,” Scott replied.

Stiles nodded and turned. He made his way over to Derek’s side and followed the peacekeepers’ instructions as they were ushered onstage.

Scott made his way back to Melissa’s side. She bundled both of the boys into her arms and held them close while they cried.

After a moment, another lot of peacekeepers singled them out and walked them down to the front of the gathered crowd.

The mayor of District Twelve followed the others up onto the stage.

The lights of the cameras blinked on and the District fell quiet as the mayor stepped forward to present his annual speech about how the Hunger Games provided the Districts with peace through the sacrifice of tributes from each District. They are to participate in the Games in order to never repeat the rebellion and tragedy of District Thirteen or the Dark Days. He reiterated the new rules about how the Quarter Quell would be ‘celebrated’ by selecting the two tributes from the District’s surviving victors of the Games.

When he finished, Lydia stepped forward, strutting across the stage and balancing atop her high heels.

She stopped before the microphone and smiled sweetly.

“I wish you all a happy Hunger Games,” she said, all emotion and sincerity lost in the repetition of the phrase. “And may the odds be in your favour.”

Silence fell over District Twelve.

Before her sat a large crystal bowl with three slivers of paper with three names written on them: Stiles, Derek and Peter.

She took a step forward and lowered her hand into the bowl. Her fingers grabbed the nearest piece of paper. She returned to the microphone and opened the folded card. Her smile dropped as she read the name.

John’s heart pounded against his ribs.

He saw her swallow hard as her glittering hazel eyes looked at Stiles with pain. Her lips quivered and tears welled in her eyes.

“No,” Melissa gasped.

Stiles nodded to her and she took a second to compose herself before reading the name.

John hung his head. He didn’t need to hear it; he knew who’s name it was.

“Stiles Stilinski.”

John let out a shuddering breath as tears fell from his eyes. The glistening droplets fell to the ground slowly, making him live out every agonising second even longer. The teardrop twinkled like a diamond as it caught the light and shattered like glass as it struck the ground, stirring a small cloud of dirt.

Chris pulled Melissa into his arms as another wave of tears overcame her. She collapsed weakly in his hold, shuddering and crying as he held her close. He cupped the back of her head and whispered softly to her as he cradled her against his chest.

Scott did the same for Isaac, holding the boy close as he wailed and thrashed about.

John tried to steady is breathing, he heart shattered beyond repair.

 _I’m sorry, Claudia,_ he thought as Stiles took a step forward and stood proud at the front of the stage. _I’m sorry I couldn’t keep him safe._

Among the crowd, he could hear the cries of many adding to Melissa and Isaac’s heartbroken cries, the soft sobs of the citizens who knew him well and the distinct wail of a baby.

Lydia stepped forward and pulled a second piece of card from the bowl. She unfolded it and readied herself to read it when a voice interrupted her.

“I volunteer.”

John’s heart skipped a beat and his blood ran cold through his veins. He looked up onstage as Derek and his uncle had a hushed argument. Derek pulled his arm free of the man’s vice grip and stepped forward to Stiles’ side. He took a hold of Stiles’ hand and ran his thumb over the boy’s rigid knuckles.

Stiles glanced up to him, his eyes full of tears as he shook his head and whispered something.

He turned his eyes away from Stiles and nodded to Lydia.

She drew in a shaky breath and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the tributes of District Twelve: Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale.”

John shook his head, fighting back his own tears as he thought, _Not again, don’t take my boy again._

The presentation was brought to an end as the Capitol anthem played them off.

The music echoed through the streets while Derek and Stiles stood proud atop the stage before dying away into an eerie silence.

The District was still, the crowd numbed and unmoving.

They wanted to farewell them, give then one last gesture of love and honour, but they knew better than to salute.

Derek and Stiles were guided into the Justice Building behind the stage. The large doors opened and the peacekeepers walked them straight through to the train platform.

Stiles froze, his eyes wide with panic.

John watched as he said something and turned to run back into the building but two peacekeepers blocked his way.

John stepped forward, only to be shoved back by armed guards.

Chris and Scott leapt into action, ready to start a fight but John held out his arm, blocking their path and calming them.

“Don’t we have to go and say goodbye?” Isaac mumbled, sniffing back his tears.

“We get to say goodbye,” Scott growled.

“Not this time,” the captain of the guard replied, levelling his glare with Scott as if to dare him to act out again. His hand settled atop his pistol as he looked down at the boy, a not-so-subtle reminder of what awaited him if he misbehaved again.

“Stiles,” Scott howled past the man’s shoulder.

“Stiles!” Isaac joined him, screaming at the top of his lungs.

John blinked back the tears blurred his vision as he helped Chris pull the boy’s back into the crowd.

He waited for the peacekeepers to let down their guard before turning around and sprinting towards the withered wooden doors of the Justice building.

Two of the guards caught him, grabbing his arms and hurling him backwards.

“Stiles!” he screamed for his son, his cries emptying the air from his chest and leaving his lungs burning for relief.

But it was pointless.

The large doors of the Justice Building swung shut, his boy disappearing behind them as they did.

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” John whimpered, falling weak in the arms of the peacekeepers.

They hurled him off stage.

He hit the ground with a solid thud, stirring up a cloud of dirt and staining his clothes with mud.

“No!” Melissa cried out, sprinting forward to the front of the crowd.

Chris caught her and pulled her back.

John groaned as he rose to his knees and glared at the captain of the guard.

“I thought I told you and your brat not to interfere,” the man growled as he stepped forward.

John remained silent, staring the man down.

The captain of the guard backhanded him, the metal plating of his gauntlet digging into the skin of John’s cheek.

John hit the ground again with a painful grunt. He thumped his hand against the earth and lifted himself upright, staggering to his feet and swaying slightly. His shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths as he glared at the man, livid.

The captain reached for his whip and pulled it from his belt.

John didn’t flinch.

“Enough!” Chris bellowed, making even the captain of the guard freeze. “You dare lay a hand on him and you will have to fight off every single person in this District as well as half of your own men, Captain. So I’d suggest you holster your hurt ego, turn around and march back to your barracks before this truly gets messy.”

The man drew in a deep breath and straightened his back.

“Return to your houses!” he ordered before turning and making his way into the Justice Building.

They crowd began to dissipate, people scurrying back to their homes or rushing over to John’s side to help him back onto his feet. A few people raced over to help Melissa deal with the boys while Bobby brought over Laura, his own son clinging to his leg.

Chris and Melissa stepped over to John’s side. Melissa wound her arms around him and held him tight.

John returned the hug, letting Chris and Melissa take his weight while he steadied himself.

Scott let go of Isaac and took Laura from Coach Finstock, cradling the baby against his chest and letting her nuzzle her tear-streaked face into his shirt. He spoke softly to her, calming her the way Stiles would. While he had a skill at dealing with Isaac, Stiles was better at dealing with Laura than anyone else: he could make her stop crying in seconds and not even Derek could do that.

But soon enough, Laura settled and quietened.

Isaac dragged his feet over to John and fell into the man’s arms.

John bundled him up in his arms, holding him close as tears coursed across the boy’s pale cheeks.

He was mumbling the same thing over and over again: “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”


	6. Chapter 6

John carried Isaac through the front door and carefully set him down on the couch.

The boy sniffed back his tears and curled up against one of the cushions.

“Isaac,” Scott called quietly, bringing Laura over to sit with them. “Why don’t you go and get a book to read to Laura?”

Isaac peered up at him.

“Come on,” Scott encouraged, gently prodding Isaac’s legs.

Isaac pouted and rose to his feet, making his way into the study. He returned with his tattered copy of _The Little Prince_ and sat down next to Scott. He crossed his legs and perched the book in his lap the way he always did. He carefully opened the worn blue cover, scared that it would break off.

Laura squirmed about in Scott’s arms excitedly, her toothless smile lighting up her face and her jade eyes glimmering as she looked at Isaac lovingly. As he read, she began to cheer up, giggling, babbling and smiling brightly at Isaac.

John watched from the door as Isaac opened the book and began to read, following the words across the smooth, faded page with his finger.

Melissa joined him, pressing a damp cloth to his cheek.

John leant away from her touch. “I’m fine.”

“John,” Melissa said softly.

“I didn’t think it could get worse,” John admitted, keeping his voice low so that the boys didn’t hear him. “I thought losing him once was the worst thing I could experience.”

“He made it out of that arena,” Melissa reminded him. “There’s a chance he can make it out of this one too.”

John shook his head. “I don’t know. I want him to, but if he does come out he’ll be a shadow of the man he was and I don’t want to see him in pain like that. Maybe it’ll be more merciful if he dies.”

There was a loud crack as Melissa’s hand collided with his cheek.

Scott and Isaac froze, spinning around to look at them. Scott noticed the rage in his mother’s eyes and quietly encouraged Isaac to keep reading.

“Don’t you dare say anything like that again,” she hissed, glaring at him.

She swiftly turned on her heels and stormed away, leaving John alone in the silence of the foyer.

John slowly turned around to look at the charcoal painting that hung on the wall. He stepped over to it, running his fingers along the carved frame and across the section of glass that covered her signature, wiping the dust and grime off the glass to reveal the curved writing. It was a gorgeous charcoal drawing, one of the best she had ever done. It was the one she drew of Scott and Stiles when they were both eight-years-old. She had captured the youthful bliss of the two boys playing in the meadow, close to the fence that encircled the District. Their faces were turned away and towards the woods beyond the barbed-wire fence as they sat among the blooming flowers.

He remembered how Scott and Stiles would make daisy chains and make their mothers wear them like halos. He remembered how the boy would come home with their clothes stained by mud and grass. He remembered how they always apologised and offered bouquets of flowers as compensation. He remembered how the boys would rush out of school on the first day of summer and run straight to the meadow, their faces lit with bright smiles as they pranced about and played among the grass and blossoming flowers.

 _I’m sorry, Claudia_ , _I’ve failed you_ , John thought, tears welling in his eyes as he gently caressed the glass over Stiles’ youthful face. _I couldn’t help him, and – because I couldn’t – I’ve lost him._

John bowed his head, resting his forehead against the glass of the picture.

_I’m so sorry. I couldn’t save our son._


	7. Chapter 7

John stopped in the doorway looking into the lounge room at the small figure that sat upright on the cushions.

“What are you doing Isaac?” he asked.

“Waiting,” the boy replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the television screen.

“The broadcast won’t be on until later this afternoon,” John told him.

“I know.”

John stepped into the room and crossed over to the boy’s side. Scott and Coach had taken Laura back to the shelter when they went to deliver dinner and – judging by the rumpled cushions and the blanket that was laid across his lap – Isaac has slept on the couch.

“So you’re going to sit here and wait all day?” John asked, sitting down next to the boy.

Isaac nodded.

“Have you had something to eat?”

Isaac nodded.

“Have you had something to drink?” John pushed.

Isaac nodded again.

“And you don’t want to go upstairs and play or go down to the shelter and see Laura?” John offered.

Isaac shook his head, his golden curls bouncing about.

“What’s going on, buddy?” the man asked, sitting back against the plush cushions of the couch and wrapping his arm around Isaac’s slender shoulders.

“If I sit and wait and be good then Stiles will come home sooner, right?” Isaac muttered, looking up at John with glittering blue eyes.

John let out a heavy sigh and met Isaac’s gaze. “Do you remember how hard it was for Stiles to survive in the Games? He’s not one to start fights and he was attacked by jabberjays and tracker jackers. Well, this year’s going to be even harder. I don’t know what the environment is going to be like or if they’ll have to fight off tracker jackers or mutts or whatever the Gamemakers throw in, but Stiles and Derek will have to fight off other victors who were trained to fight and who won by killing other people.”

Isaac shook his head feverishly. “No, Stiles and Derek are coming home. They’ll win and they’ll come home.”

“I want them to too, kiddo, but there’s a chance they might not make it,” John insisted.

Isaac shuffled forwards and sank down onto the floor. He rand his fingers across the floorboards, scribbling something in the thin layer of dust.

“Derek taught me it,” Isaac said proudly, drawing three spirals that met at a central point: a triskelion. “He says it’s a kind of unity, a bond, that means many different things: mother, father and child or mind, body and spirit. But he likes to think of it as family: past, present and future. And the bit in the middle shows that they always come back in the end. Even if they die, they’re still with you.”

Isaac looked up at John.

The man nodded thoughtfully.

“And like the fox, we’ve made ties,” Isaac added. “Those ties don’t break of fade. We’re a family and that’s that. Stiles and Derek will come home.”

John leant forward and pressed a kiss to the crown of the boy’s head and whispered, “Of course they will.”

 

That afternoon when the television blinked on, everyone rushed into the lounge room, gathering around the couch to watch the reruns of the Opening Ceremony.

Scott sat down on the couch with his mother and curled up against her side. Isaac sat down by their feet and Chris sat on the other end of the couch while John positioned himself in one of the arm chairs.

The black chariots rolled into the streets of the Capitol.

The tributes were dressed in elegant outfit, the fabric of the dresses, coats and capes all billowing in the breeze.

Some of the faces looked familiar – children who they had seen go into the Games over the years and emerge victorious – but their names escaped them.

The tributes from District One – a boy and a girl – were dressed in flowing black outfits that were decorated with small diamantes and glittering lights that charted out constellations. The female tribute’s dress shimmered like the night sky, the small lights and gems glittering like fireflies on an onyx pool. She looked gorgeous.

Her fellow tribute, however, wore the colour like it was death. His menacing scowl and cruel eyes made the stunning outfit look like a god had torn it from the sky and draped it around his shoulders to show off his power. He was a victor, there was no doubting it.

Behind them were the tributes from District Two: a young girl who looked to be no older than eighteen and an older woman who carried her age with grace. They were dressed in elegant white chiffon dresses that was woven in strands around a stunning web of jewels and beads that sat on thin chains and accentuated their curves, tinkling and shimmering as they moved.

“They’re pretty but I want to see Stiles and Derek,” Isaac whined, crossing his arms across his chest and pouting.

“Soon, buddy,” Scott promised. “We just have to wait.”

A couple of chariots down the line were the tributes for District Four.

Her designer had taken District Four’s fishing to a whole new level, dressing their tributes up in what looked like bathers – the young girl in a salmon pink bikini and the older male in swimming trunks of the same colour– with a draping tunic that was made out of fishing nets. The netting on the girl’s dress was pulled up into a Grecian collar and clung to her slim body. It fanned out around her waist into a billowing skirt with a slit up one leg that exposed her olive skin. The outfit was completed by a pair of salmon pink platform heels that she struggled to stay upright on. The designer had focused on small details too, using makeup to give the illusion of scales on their shoulders.

In the next chariot was the tributes from District Five, another two women who were a lot more elderly than the other tributes. They were dressed in elegant dresses that reflected their cultural heritage and looked gorgeous. The silky navy blue dresses sat freely on their slim bodies, decorated by stitched silver and white flowers and ferns. Atop their slender shoulders were heavy capes that matched their dresses and were lined with pastel blue silk. The edges were embroidered with thin silver wire and small strands of blue fibres that slayed out like sparks, a homage to their District’s resource: power.

Behind them was the two young tributes from District Six. They looked like brother and sister, both with sandy blonde hair and bright eyes. The girl was younger and dressed in a pale blue corset that was laced together with a thick black ribbon. It was accompanied by a silver skirt that seemed to be too small for her comfort.

Her brother was dressed in a billowing white shirt and grey shorts. He wore a pale blue bowtie that matched his sister’s corset.

A few carriages down the line, the female tribute from District Nine was dressed in free-flowing outfit. The pale beige fabric of the girl’s dress flowed like a cape from her shoulders but melted into the skirt of her gown. The only feature that broke that illusion was the beaded corset that hugged her slim torso.

Her dark curls had escaped their tie and hung around her face, the rest of her hair was held back by a wreath of moulded sheets of metal and made to look like a halo of golden leaves.

She was a beautiful young woman with innocent features.

The camera focused on her face.

Scott felt his heart sink as Melissa gasped. His eyes flickered to Chris’ vacant expression.

Isaac was the only one who said what they were all thinking, “She looks like Allison.”

The presentation continued, shaking them from their stunned trance.

The boy from District Eleven was dressed in a flamboyant magenta jacket with coat tails that billowed out behind him. The coat was lined with a thin sheet of green silk that melted into the shadows of the rippling fabric. Beneath the coat, he wore a pair of short gold shorts and a matching vest that was covered in heavy jewels of varying shades of pink and purple.

The young boy who wore it had dark brown skin that looks flushed and sickly beneath the vibrant colours.

The outfit itself didn’t look to bad, but their designer hadn’t factored in their tributes appearances when they were designing it – obviously they had hoped for one of the higher Districts and had been bumped down to Eleven and had lacked the care to change their design.

His fellow tribute’s outfit was more elegant: a heavily jewelled corset that was accentuated by a rippling magenta and green skirt that cascaded from her waist. It was designed to look like the petals of a vibrant rose as it burst from the bud and bloomed brilliantly.

Finally the last chariot left the bay, stepping into the light as the horses trotted down the street.

“Stiles!” Isaac squealed excitedly.

The shadows pulled back to reveal Stiles and Derek. They were dressed in dusty black suits that were made to look like they were covered in soot and coal dust. Beneath the jackets, they wore silver vests and cloudy grey shirts with ornate purple and gold stitching. A pale lilac tie was wound around their throats, tied neatly but hanging a little loosely around the collar so that Stiles could breathe. The outfit was completed by a pair of dull grey pants that shimmered slightly because of the silver pinstripes, but were far from spectacular. Atop of their heads sat halo-like crowns that were made of dark barbed twigs with strands of purple flowers coiled around them.

They held their heads high, their hands interlocked as the chariot rattled on towards the City Circle.

Stiles turned to look at Derek.

Seconds later, there was a roaring rush of wind as vibrant flames engulfed their suits and danced around them.

Golden sparks flittered through the air as the coal-dusted fabric of their jackets peeled away. The flickering sparks glittered around them as the burning strips of fabric morphed into crisp white roses and small daisies.

The flowers fell from the chariot and were scattered across the street.

Their dark jackets were replaced with faded white ones, the fine details of gold and purple matching the rest of their ensemble.

Isaac let out an excited gasp as he whispered, “Pretty.”

Melissa’s face lit up with a brilliant smile.

John watched on with a smile as Derek caught one of the roses that fell away from the glittering flames. He tucked it into the pinhole of Stiles’ suit and whispered something that made Stiles smile genuinely.

The crowd roared and the cameras turned to them, their carriage – their faces – appearing on every screen around them as the Ceremony was broadcasted across the entirety of Beacon Hills.

The chariots slowed as they reached the City Circle, circling around the open space as they were presented to Deucalion. The man stood atop his podium and looked down upon them with his usual judgmental gaze and a false smile.

As the clattering wheels of the chariot pulled to a halt.

President Deucalion stepped up to the microphone and began his speech, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Opening Ceremony of the seventy-fifth annual Hunger Games. Please, join me in welcoming the previous victors and the tributes of the Quarter Quell.”

The crowd roared with applause, but it all seemed so distant and drained. Deucalion continued his speech, the same thing he said ever year: welcoming the tributes from each District and explaining how this ‘celebration’ of their youths serves as a reminder of the downfall after the rebellion and the Dark Days. He didn’t talk about District Thirteen; the capitol lived in ignorance of Deucalion’s tyranny.

When the president had finished with his formalities, the chariots turned and drove on to the Training Centre.

The video faded out and the Capitol emblem lit up the screen and ‘MANDADTORY VIEWING’ spread across the bottom of the screen.

The Capitol anthem blared through the speakers.

“I’ll get some tea,” Chris muttered, rising to his feet and making his way into the kitchen. After a minute or two he returned with a cup of tea for each of them and sat down in time for the reruns to begin.

They began by replaying the president’s address and the announcement of the new rules for the Quarter Quell. After that, they began to replay the Reapings across the Districts.

‘District 1’ lit up the bottom of the screen.

John listened as their names were announced.

“Donovan Donati.”

“He’s the victor of the seventy-first Hunger Games,” Chris reminded them.

There was no mistaking why Donovan had survived: being a Career, he had the best training and so went into the arena with no fear.

They were too distracted by the young man’s cruel glare to listen to the announcement of his fellow tribute, the young woman who had worn the gorgeous starry dress.

John shook himself from the daze as the recording changed to ‘District 2’.

“Corrine.”

“The ‘Desert Wolf’,” Melissa corrected. “Remember her? She was the one who won the Games after Peter’s, the desert plain.”

“So who’s the other one?” Scott asked.

“I haven’t seen her face before,” Chris mumbled.

“Paige Krasikeva,” the Capitol representative of District Two announced.

“She’s a civilian,” John whispered. “All the other victors from Two have died of age, moved District, taken their own lives, or…”

His voice fell short as he glanced down at Isaac.

“Or were silenced for their defiance,” Chris finished, his voice emotionless as he fought back the painful memories of his father’s execution.

District Three’s first tribute, Sean Walcott, seemed like a normal boy. He had won the seventieth Hunger Games, but neither Chris nor John couldn’t remember how. But as he stepped forward on the stage and flashed a smile at the crowd, the men flinched; his teeth were not only a revolting yellow, but were sharpened to a razor-like point and reinforced by implanted teeth of the same design.

His fellow tribute was a middle-aged woman with flaxen blonde hair who had the composed glare of a victor but the heart-broken eyes of a mother who was being forced to leave her children.

District Four’s tributes were next.

“Geyer,” Chris repeated the representative’s announcement. “His son was in the last Games he was on Liam’s podium during the Victory Tour. And the little girl – Hayden – is a civilian.”

The broadcast continued, changing to the Reaping Ceremony of District Five.

“Satomi Ito,” Chris continued. “She won the fortieth Hunger Games. I remember my father talking about her… he used to know her. A woman of age and wisdom, like her fellow tribute, Noshiko Yukimura.”

“Yukimura?” Melissa repeated.

“Kira’s mother,” Chris replied quietly.

A heavy blanket of silence settled over them as the screen faded and ‘District 6’ lit up the bottom of the screen.

“The boy is Brett Talbot,” Chris explained, diffing into his memories. “He won the Games six years ago and then had to mentor his little sister, Lori, when she was chosen for the seventy-third Games.”

District’s Seven’s tributes were a civilian and a victor but Chris didn’t know anything about them.

The cameras zoomed in on the male tribute of District Eight: a strongly built man with a demeanour of a victor. He had defined brow ridges and hollow cheeks, making him look like the kind of monster that would haunt your nightmares. But Stiles was drawn to his eyes, the dark pecan depths swirling with fear and pain.

“The Mute,” Chris announced. “He came out of the Games fifteen years ago and hasn’t said a word since. His fellow tribute, Meredith, was fifteen when she won the sixty-sixth Games and they messed her up. When she was on the Victory Tour she shaved off her hair and told people that she could hear the screams of the dead.”

District Nine was next.

“Corey Bryant, victor of the seventy-second Games,” Chris continued. His voice dropped off as the face of the young girl appeared on the screen. Marie-Jeanne Valet was her name and she was the splitting image of his own daughter.

District Ten’s tributes were both civilians, as was District Eleven’s male tribute. Eleven’s female tribute, however, was a victor.

“Marin Morell,” Chris said, shaking himself from his trance. “She’s the victor of the sixty-fourth Hunger Games.”

And, finally, the familiar faces of Derek and Stiles appeared onscreen. After that, they replayed the Opening Ceremony, parading the tributes through the streets in extravagant outfits.

Isaac and Melissa stayed to watch the reruns while John snuck out onto the balcony. He sat down on the withered wooden boards and stared out across the front yard of the Village.

“Are you okay?” Chris whispered, cautiously stepping up to his friend’s side.

“I’m fine,” John replied quietly.

“So Stiles gets it from you,” Chris teased, sitting down next to John. “My father used to tell me that when someone says they’re ‘fine’ they’re really using it as an abbreviation for effed-off, insecure, neurotic, and exhausted.”

“In that case, I’m all of the above,” John admitted.

Chris sighed.

“They’ll be okay,” he assured his friend. “You know that, right?”

“They’re up against _victors_ , Chris,” John argued. “People who killed to win. What chance does Stiles have in that arena?”

“The same chance he had in the last one,” Chris replied.

John looked at him, his brow creased in confusion.

“He scored a ten in the Gamemaker’s Assessment,” Chris reminded him. “A better score than Allison’s. And when he was in the arena he fought off Careers, tracker jackers and jabberjays. He’s proved he’s more than capable at using a weapon, and more importantly his intelligence. And if that isn’t enough he stood up against the captain of the guard and refused to yield, even at gunpoint.”

John bowed his head.

“He’s a strong kid. He’s brave and he’s caring,” Chris said softly. “He knows when he needs to stand his ground to protect those he loves. A lot like someone else I know.”

Chris nudged John, but his friend shook his head and whispered, “He’s not like me; I’m coward. He’s like Claudia. And I think that’s why I’m so scared to lose him. I love you all, and you’re family to me, but he’s my son… He’s all I have left.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Do you remember what mum said we needed?” Scott asked as they walked into the market place.

Isaac held up his hand and began to count his fingers as he listed, “Flour, eggs, carrots, apples, pawpaws, and fabric for bandages.”

“Okay, we’ll get the fabric first,” Scott said as he led Isaac across the market to the tailor shop. They stepped up to the dishevelled house and knocked at the door.

The tailor answered and Scott explained their order.

The slender man made quick work of his supplies, looking through piles of woven cotton sheets until he found the one he wanted. He brought it over to Scott for the teen to pass judgement.

“Perfect,” Scott said with a smile. “How much do I owe you for two meters of it?”

“No charge,” the tailor insisted. “You gave me a wonderful boar pelt the other day that more than makes up for it.”

“No, I insist,” Scott pressed. “How much?”

“Five dollars a meter,” The tailor offered.

“I’ll give you six a meter and any pelts I get this week,” Scott countered.

“The point of bartering is that you’re meant to try for a lower price,” the tailor pointed out.

“I know, but I also know that the fabric is usually eight dollars or more per meter,” Scott reminded him.

The tailor sighed and Scott smiled victoriously.

“Six dollars a meter and any pelts you get from your next hunt?” the tailor reiterated. He cut the fabric and folded it before passing it to Scott. “Deal.”

Scott took it and stowed it away in the bottom of his backpack before pulling out the coins and passing them to the man behind the counter. He thanked the man before shrugging the bag onto his back and heading back out onto the street.

“Hey, Coach,” Scott called as he made his way over to the stall. “Got any flour?”

“No, sorry,” the man replied, disheartened. “Those bastards from the Capitol set all our rations on fire. We don’t have any until the next lot comes in a few days.”

“Is everyone alright for rations?” Scott asked.

Coach nodded and assured the boy, “Everyone was given rations the day before they came and I’ve made it clear that if they lost their rations then they can come to the shelter and eat there.”

“Alright,” Scott muttered. "If you need me to get anything on my next hunt, let me know and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Don’t overwork yourself,” Coach instructed. “You need to rest after…”

“The beating,” Scott finished. “It’s okay, you can say it.”

“How are you?” Coach asked.

“I’m fine,” Scott replied. “It’s healing well. Peter found some of the healing cream that the Capitol uses and that cleared up most of the wounds. The rest only hurts if my shirt sticks to them or if I lie on my back.”

“That’s good to hear,” the man said. “Just don’t push yourself too far. I’ll bring your mother some flour as soon as the new stock comes in.”

“Thank you,” Stiles replied. “Take care.”

“You too, kid.”

Scott turned and ushered Isaac to their next destination, a few shops down.

“What are the pawpaws for?” Isaac asked as Scott led him over to the fruit stall.

“Mum uses them in her healing creams,” Scott explained. “And she needs some to make more cream for all the people with burns.”

“And your back,” Isaac added.

“And my back,” Scott confirmed.

“So what are the apples for?” Isaac queried.

“The apples are for you,” Scott replied.

Isaac’s eyes lit up as he smiled. “For me?”

“But only if you’re good.”

“I’ll be good,” Isaac promised.

Scott smiled and finished the transaction, paying the vendor.

“I promise I’ll bring those eggs over first thing tomorrow morning,” the vendor’s son said.

“That’d be lovely,” Scott replied, packing the fruit into his backpack and using the fabric to cushion them. “Thank you.”

He rose to his feet and turned to look at Isaac.

“What’s up?” Scott asked, following the younger boy’s gaze towards a group of Capitol-assigned peacekeepers.

“I don’t like them,” Isaac muttered under his breath.

“No-one does, but while they’re here we have to be on our best behaviour,” Scott said firmly.

A shrill squeal broke the air.

Scott spun around.

His heart sank it his stomach as he caught sight of the peacekeepers beating a crippled women. The screams came from her daughter – a scrawny girl who frequented the shelter. The little girl thrashed about in the arms of the peacekeeper that pulled her away from her mother, wailing and crying as she fought against the man’s vice grip.

Scott acted without thinking.

He picked up a heavy rock and hurled it at one of the peacekeepers.

The peacekeeper dropped the girl.

She scurried to her mother’s side and helped the injured woman to her feet, disappearing into the shadows and out of harm’s way.

The peacekeepers turned and marched towards the boys.

“Shit,” Scott gasped, suddenly realised his mistake.

Scott froze as he watched the armoured guards stalk towards them.

“We can take them,” Isaac said, rolling up the sleeves of his knitted cardigan.

Scott looked at him, shocked by the younger boy’s sudden display of bravado.

Scott turned, tapping Isaac’s arm and turning the boy around. He reached back to Isaac, trying to grab at the thick wool of the boy’s sleeve. He caught a hold of the boy’s slender hand and led him through the streets.

Isaac made an attempt to keep up with him, flailing about slightly as his feet pedalled beneath him. He ran after Scott, following his heavy footsteps as they wove their way through the muddy streets.

They sprinted through the maze of charred buildings and familiar streets.

“Where are we going?” Isaac called.

“Just follow me,” Scott shouted back, ducking down and alley and racing around the back of the buildings. Scott made sure they were out of sight when he took Isaac’s hand and sprinted across the grassy patch they called the meadow. He pulled the boy over to the hole in the fence and ushered him under it.

“Go,” he whispered, pulling back the sharp wire and making sure the boy was clear before passing him the backpack and following.

“What are we going to do?” Isaac asked, keeping his voice low even though the peacekeepers has lost them.

“We’re going to wait here until things calm down and then we’re going to go home,” Scott replied, leading Isaac into the shadows behind the tree line.

“Is John going to be mad at us?” Isaac whimpered.

“I don’t know,” Scott admitted.

He heard Isaac sniff back his tears. He turned and looked down at the boy, tears streaking his cheeks.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Scott assured him.

“No, it’s not,” Isaac babbled. “If I don’t be good then Stiles won’t come home.”

Scott let out a sigh and crouched beside Isaac, gently lifting the boy’s chin. “Come on now. Stiles is coming home. And if John is mad at us, I’ll take all the blame, okay?”

Isaac didn’t respond.

Scott gently wiped away the boy’s tears. He sat back and opened his backpack. He rummaged through the contents and pulled out one of the apples. He handed the boy the glossy fruit.

“You’re a good boy, Isaac,” Scott whispered. “And Stiles is coming home.”

 

They waited there for a few hours, wandering into the woods slightly to fetch berries or set snares for Scott to check tomorrow.

Isaac didn’t go hunting with the others; he was adverse to hurting animals and far too innocent to kill another being. So, when he went out into the woods, Scott forfeited hunting for foraging: collecting berries, roots and honeycomb.

As the sun began to sink towards the horizon and the day began to turn to afternoon, the boys decided to return home. They slid under the hole in the fence and made their way through the District and back towards the Victor’s Village. They crept through the front yard, stepping over the weed-covered cast iron sign and up onto the creaking boards of the patio.

Scott opened the door and led Isaac inside.

He froze at the sight of John standing in the foyer with his arms crossed over his chest and rage brewing in his eyes.

Scott drew in a deep breath and passed Isaac his backpack, “Take this to mum.”

Isaac nodded, taking the bag from Scott and scurrying away into the kitchen.

“Before you say anything, it was my fault,” Scott said quickly.

John didn’t speak, he just glared at the boy.

“They were attacking people for no reason, I had to do something,” Scott explained. “I wasn’t going to put Isaac in danger, so we ran.”

John stepped forward, unfolded his arms and pulled Scott into his embrace.

Scott flinched slightly, confused and shocked.

“I’m just glad you’re both okay,” John whispered. He pulled back and crouched slightly to look the boy in the eye. “But _please_ don’t get involved anymore.”

“They’re hurting people and abusing their power, what am I meant to do?”

“Find the peacekeepers from Twelve, the ones who know what to do or come and find Chris and me and we’ll put an end to it,” John offered. “Please, Scott, I can’t handle the thought of you or Isaac getting hurt – or worse, killed. It’s bad enough that Stiles is gone, but I can’t lose you two too.”

Scott froze.

“I’m sorry,” Scott rasped, bowing his head.

“I know, kiddo,” John whispered, leaning forward to hug the boy again. He pressed a tender kiss to the crown of the boy’s head.

Scott blinked back his tears as John leant back to look him in the eye again.

“What you need to do now is lie low,” John instructed. “The peacekeepers didn’t catch you, they didn’t get a good look at you either, and no-one in the market is willing to give up your names, so you’re not being hunted. But still, don’t go out into the District tomorrow. Stay home or go hunting, but don’t go to the market or anywhere else. If you need to trade things, your mum and I will do it for you. Speaking of which, you need to go see your mum and get your back checked out; you’ve been bleeding through your shirt. It’s dry now, but you need to get it checked out.”

Scott nodded and made his way towards the kitchen where he could hear his mother talking quietly to Isaac.

“And John,” he muttered, stopping in the doorway. “I really am sorry.”

John nodded and watched as Scott made his way into the kitchen.

“You let him off easy,” Chris muttered from the lounge room.

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” John argued, crossing the room to sit with his friend.

“He hit a peacekeeper with a rock.”

“No-one can prove it,” John countered.

Chris sighed and sipped at his tea.

“Why do things get so much harder when Stiles isn’t here?” John mused.

Chris looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Really? Do you not remember how many times we’ve had to stop Stiles from beating up peacekeepers? Or all the times we’ve had to track them down in the woods because he’d fallen out of a tree and hurt himself? Or that one time a few years ago when we searched the whole District thinking he had run away when really he was hiding in his closet because he was mad at you for yelling at him because he gave his breakfast to Isaac?”

John couldn’t help but smile at the memories.

“He only ever did what was right,” John thought. “He never started a fight just because he could, he only ever fell out of trees because he was desperate to find food for us and he always gave his breakfast to Isaac. Why did I always get mad at him for doing the right thing? Am I that bad of a father?”

“No,” Chris scolded his friend. “You got mad at him for putting others before himself and neglecting his health and safety for the sake of others. You were being a good father and taking care of your son.”

“So why can’t I do the same for Scott and Isaac?” John asked, burying his face in his hands.

“You do,” Chris argued.

Before John had the chance to counter, the television blinked on and the broadcast began.

The presenters went about their usual spiel of terrible humour and reviewing the tributes – their actions at the Reaping, their outfits from the Opening Ceremonies, comments about their Districts and previous victories, etc. – before getting to business and reading out the scores from the Gamemaker’s Assessment.

District One’s male tribute, Donovan Donati, scored 9 – a score expected of a Career – while his fellow tribute scored a 7. Corrine scored another 9, but Paige scored a 5 – earning some rather rude comments from the disturbingly cheery announcers. Sean Walcott and his fellow tribute from District Three both scored an 8, as expected of Careers. Hayden scored a 5 and Geyer scored a 6. Satomi and Noshiko both scored a 6, leading to commenters to gossip about their chances and what skill they must have if they can achieve such a high score ‘at such an age’.

Behind him, quiet feet pattered into the living room, cautiously creeping over to the couch.

John couldn’t help but smile as he turned to see a pair of bright sapphire eyes peeping over the armrest.

“Come here, Isaac,” John whispered, patting the couch cushion beside him.

The boy didn’t move.

“You’re not in trouble,” John assured him. “Come here.”

The boy crept forward cautiously and sat down next to John. He let his body slump as he curled up against the man’s side.

John pressed a kiss atop his golden curls and then turned his attention back to the broadcast.

Next was Brett and Lori, who scored an 8 and a 5. Corey scored another 8 and Marie-Jeanne scored a 9. Both tributes from District Seven scored as low as a 4. Meredith and the Mute both scored a 6, leaving Stiles to wonder why – Mute was terrifying and skilled and Meredith seemed as if she knew things others didn’t, then again it might be a case of a low scoring tribute coming out on top in the arena. Corey scored another 8 and Marie-Jeanne scored a 9. District Ten’s Tracy scored a 5 and her fellow tribute scored a 4. Marin and Mason both scored 8, leaving the announcers stunned.

“District Twelve’s Derek Hale,” they continued. “Nine.”

John and Chris smiled.

“What did he score last year?” John asked.

“Nine,” Chris replied.

Their conversation was silenced when ‘District 12: Stiles Stilinski’ lit up the bottom of the screen.

John held his breath.

The announcers drew it out, making the suspense painful as they reflected on Stiles’ previous score and how well he did in the arena of the seventy-fourth Games, before they finally announced the score.

10.

“Ten?” Scott muttered weakly.

“A perfect score,” Chris said cheerily. “Two years in a row.”

“What could Stiles have done to get a perfect score?” John asked, turning to look at Scott in hopes the boy would have an answer.

Scott shrugged and muttered, “He’s really good at spearing pigs.”


	9. Chapter 9

That day was like any other, only quieter.

Scott had stayed at home to take care of Isaac and keep them both out of trouble.

John and Chris had gone to work at their dawn shift in the mines and Melissa went to take care of the shelter. When she came home, Laura was curled up in her arms, fast asleep.

“We have a visitor,” Melissa whispered as she joined the boys in the lounge room.

“What’s she doing here?” Scott asked.

“She kept crying and wouldn’t settle when I put her down for a nap but as soon as she was in my arms she was out like a light,” Melissa explained.

“Can I hold her?” Isaac whispered.

Melissa smiled and nodded.

Isaac crossed his arms and waited while Melissa carefully lowered the child into her arms.

“Mind her head,” Scott encouraged.

Laura stirred slightly in the boy’s arms before rolling against his chest and nuzzling her face into his shirt.

“Can she stay here tonight?” Isaac pleaded. “I’ll take care of her.”

“A baby’s a lot of work, Isaac. She’ll wake up in the middle of the night and cry if she’s hungry or scared or if she needs her nappy changed,” Melissa pointed out.

“I’ll help,” Scott offered, looking up at his mum with puppy-eyes that no-one could resist.

Melissa sighed.

“All right,” she agreed. “But you’ll have to ask Coach.”

“That’s fine by me,” a voice called from the doorway.

“Bobby!” Melissa greeted with delight.

“The new rations came in early and I’ve come to bring you the flour you wanted yesterday,” he explained

“Oh, thank you,” Melissa replied as she took the bag from him and took it into the kitchen before returning with a handful of coins. She passed them to Coach and thanked him again.

“If she becomes too much trouble you can bring her back to the shelter at any time; I’m going to be up all night treating the injured and making sure the bastards from the Capitol don’t start anything,” Coach told her. “In fact, it’d be a relief if she stayed here, that way I’d know that she’s taken care of and has a people who will keep her safe if something happens, God forbid. Anyway, I should be heading back. You all take care now.”

“You too, Coach,” Scott called to the man as Melissa walked out.

“Can we put the cot in our room?” Isaac asked Scott quietly.

Scott nodded.

Laura had her own room set up in the house, ready for when the adoption was finalised. It was across the hall from Derek and Stiles’ bedroom at the far end of the house, but a bit too far for Scott’s liking if something were to happen. It wouldn’t take much effort and John or Chris could help him move the cot into the boys’ bedroom when they got home.

The television blinked on, the Capitol anthem blaring through the speakers.

The noise disturbed Laura, making the young girl squirm and whine.

Isaac panicked slightly, looking at Scott for help.

Melissa came back into the house, passing Scott the old patchwork teddy bear Isaac had given her, her favourite one.

Scott began to wiggle it before Laura, tickling her rosy pink cheeks with the soft, worn fabric.

Her cries and whines began to diminish into giggles and babbling as she grabbed at the plush toy with her chubby fingers.

The music died down and the faces of a familiar presenter lit up the screen. Danny Mahealani stepped forward across the stage, talking briefly about the current occurrences and rumours that were circling the Capitol before finally getting underway with the interviews.

Melissa sat down on the couch with the boys, her dark eyes flittering between Laura, Isaac and the television.

Scott didn’t take in much, instead he directed his attention to the flourishing fabrics of elegant gowns and neat suits.

He did match a few faces and names to the outfits.

District Two’s Corrine, ‘The Desert Wolf’, strutted onto stage in her elegant silk dress, the rippling fabric shifting between shades of indigo and violet. The asymmetrical strap sat atop her shoulder, laying like a sash across half her torso and trickling down into a billowing skirt that pooled around her feet. The exposed part of the torso what made of a skin-toned bodice that was embroidered with flowers and leaves that were the same colour as the rest of the dress. To balance out the silk strap of the asymmetrical strap, a slit ran up the opposing side of her skirt and exposed her slender legs.

Paige wore a gorgeous pastel pink gown with diamond studs clustered around the V-neck collar that dipped down over the girl’s pale collarbone. The straps were thick up to her shoulders where they broke away into four strings of glittering diamond beads that crossed her shoulder blades and covered the exposed skin of her open back. The skirt was floor length and pooled around her legs, the fabric rippling as it gathered around her legs. A thin sheet of glittering chiffon covered the soft pink fabric, shimmering in the shifting light.

District Four’s Hayden stood in a dress of a similar colour. This time, her designer had taken into consideration her modesty, discomfort and need for movement. She was dressed in a cocktail-length underdress that was made of a thick, moulded fabric made to look like rippling waves. The scooped collar sat on the edges of her shoulders and the sleeves hung down slightly. The rest of her body was covered by a long draping sheet of pastel pink fabric that was pinned in place above her collarbone and hung down like a split skirt. The billowing fabric was gathered around her waist and held in place by a thick silver belt.

Geyer stood beside her, dressed in a salmon pink suit that no-one but him would be able to pull off. The bold colour of his suit was dulled by the crisp white dress shirt he wore.

District Five’s Satomi and Noshiko were both dressed in elegant, bold gowns.

Satomi’s dress was a sheen pink, strapless gown with a hem that was painted with shades of orange, red, brown and black. While still it looked like an oriental floral design, but the colours melted together and flickered like fire as it moved.

Beside her, Noshiko was dressed in a soft beige dress that was covered in colourful floral designs that seemed simple and yet detailed at the same time. The thick straps of the shoulder dipped into an open collar, leaving a small section of her chest exposed. The open panels were held in place by the thick sash that was wound around her thin waist.

He watched the faces of the other tributes pass across the screen, their voices a dull blur of sounds, at least until they got to District Eight. The sudden skip between Districts Seven and Nine caught Scott my surprise and when he looked up he remembered why the tributes from Eight hadn’t gone through with an interview: one was traumatised beyond sanity and the other wouldn’t say a word. They made a presence onstage but made their way straight up to the stands at the back of the stage where the other tributes were.

They sat through interview after interview, listening to the stories of the victors and civilians who had been pulled away from their homes and families, every saddening story sparking rebellion into the hearts of the crowd.

Scott’s attention was drawn the screen when he heard Danny announce, “Next up, we have the darling from District Twelve who won out hearts with his selflessness and honour. He’s a man who taught us that respect and love can prevail in even the hardest of places. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage Stiles Stilinski.”

The crowd roared with applause as the doors swung open and Stiles stepped out onto the stage.

Laura let out a squeal of delight, waving her hands in the air. Scott smiled and helped Isaac sit her upright in his lap so she could watch too.

He turned his eyes back to the screen, wincing at the gaudy outfit Stiles had been dressed up in.

It was a glaring white suit, the jacket made of a fabric that had a detailed silver vine-like pattern. The collar of his jacket, tabs of his shirt collar and the rounded knot of his silk white tie were all bedazzled with heavy silver beads and glistening crystals. He wore a white vest that was slightly tight around his gut, something that wasn’t factored in because of the multiple layers of fabric.

Stiles made his way across the stage, limping slightly.

“Why’s he walking funny?” Isaac asked.

“Stiles got hurt in the last Games, remember? He has a sore leg that makes it hard to walk sometimes,” Scott reminded him softly. “He just hides it a lot because he doesn’t like others thinking he’s in pain.”

“Oh, right,” Isaac mumbled.

The crowd seemed to notice too, their excitement dying slightly as some of them turned to whisper to each other or made sounds of pity.

Stiles seemed to ignore it though, waving to the crowd as he crossed the brightly lit stage and joined Danny.

“Hello, Stiles,” Danny greeted with a kind smile. “You look fabulous today, doesn’t he?”

The crowd cheered loudly.

“Now, why such a glamourous outfit?” Danny prompted. “Is there a special occasion?”

“Yes,” Stiles replied. “I have some good news to share with you and the whole of Beacon Hills.”

“You mean something better than your perfect score two years in a row?”

“Bigger and better,” Stiles said joyfully, playing along with Danny’s excitement.

Danny turned to the crowd, his face contorting into an over exaggerated expression of shock and excitement.

The crowd cheered and squealed, the suspense killing them.

“Do tell,” Danny encouraged.

“Derek and I are engaged,” Stiles announced proudly.

“Engaged?” Danny repeated, stunned but overjoyed.

“Yes and we’re hoping to live long enough to get married. Last year’s Games brought us together and gave us a chance at love in a place and time we’d thought would make it impossible.” It sounded like a rehearsed speech. “And here we are.”

“Here you are,” Danny said fondly. “Talking about last year, Allison – God rest her soul – brought the spark of fire to the interviews but you missed out. _Please_ tell me you brought it with you this time.”

“I did,” Stiles assured him. “Would you like to see?”

“Yes,” Danny pleaded, taking a step back.

Isaac sat upright, holding onto Laura so she didn’t tumble.

Stiles steadied himself on his feet and unbuttoned the top layer of his jacket as well as the vest.

He glanced out into the crowd, drew in a shaky breath and began to turn on the spot.

Scott gasped as crackling flames engulfed Stiles’ slender limbs, igniting his clothes and rolling across him in a roaring blaze. Sparks flew about as the fabric peeled away.

Laura squealed, a mix of surprise, delight and fear. She raised her hands in the air and bounced about on Isaac’s lap.

Stiles pulled up to a stop and stood still.

His eyes drifted out to the crowd, focused on something that had obviously troubled him.

“What’s wrong? Why did he stop?” Scott panicked, his blood running cold at the familiar expression on his friend’s face.

Melissa reached across the couch, taking a hold of her son’s hand.

The flames died away, the twinkling sparks diminishing.

Laura began to settle, giggling and smiling as she looked lovingly at Stiles.

Stiles glanced down at himself.

His clothes had changed: his pressed pants had taken on an onyx colouring and the bulk of his clothes had burnt away, leaving only a black dress shirt with a small strand of delicate jewels along the edge of the collar. The first few buttons were undone, leaving the gleaming pendant of the Allison’s necklace exposed.

The crowd roared with applause, the sheer volume of the thundering ovation deafening as it came through the speakers.

Stiles glanced back up at the audience, searching the faces for someone.

“What’s he looking at?” Scott uttered under his breath.

“His designer or Peter maybe,” Melissa offered.

“Not like that,” Scott muttered, lowering his voice so Isaac wouldn’t hear. “That’s the same face he used to have when he had nightmares or hallucinations. So the question is, what did he see?”

Melissa gently stroked the ball of her thumb cross the back of her son’s hand as she whispered, “He’ll be okay.”

Scott swallowed had but nodded and turned to watch the broadcast.

Danny took a step forward, waiting until the crowd quietened before speaking.

“That was incredible!” Danny cheered, the crowd applauded and howled in agreeance.

The clapping died down.

There was a moment of quiet.

“I’m sorry, Stiles, but our time is coming to an end,” Danny announced. “I’m so glad to see you again and I wish it was under better circumstances. Is there any else you’d like to say?”

“Yeah, there’s just one last thing I’d like to say,” Stiles rasped. “There are no winners, no-one ever _wins_ the Games. There are only survivors. We struggled and we survived, but we are not winners, we are not victors.”

“Thank you,” Danny said genuinely.

Stiles shook Danny’s hand and walked up to the higher section of the stage to stand by Marin’s side.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Danny continued. “Please welcome to the stage the other half of the heart throb duo, Derek Hale.”

The crowd cheered as the doors opened and the final tribute of the night stepped out onto the stage.

Derek was dressed in a similar black suit to the one that Stiles was now wearing and smiled brilliantly as he crossed the glossy floor and waved at the crowd.

Scott couldn’t help but smile at his calm façade and glamourous smile, the one he rarely ever showed.

They waited for the crowd to settle before Danny started the interview.

“Derek, I just want to start by saying congratulations on your engagement,” Danny said with a genuine smile.

“Thank you, I couldn’t be happier,” Derek replied.

“And this time last year you stepped out onto this stage for another District,” Danny pointed out, more so for the sake of the audience than Derek. “To go from the luxury, comfort and familiarity of Two to the unknown in District Twelve. What has that transition been like for you?”

“It went surprisingly well. District Twelve has a kind and loving community and our family is supportive and they took me in as if I had always been there. Already being a patchwork family, it was nice to be taken in and loved as part of their family. And in the past year there’s been two additions to the family: myself and our daughter, Laura Allison.”

Laura began to babble and squirm, her face lit up with joy. She reached forward, trying to touch Derek as if he were there and not in the Capitol.

Isaac quickly steadied her.

“A daughter?” Danny gasped, clapping his hands against his cheeks as he couldn’t help but be overcome with a smile of joy.

“Yes,” Derek said with a beaming smile. “Her father died in one of the mines and her mother passed on the day she was born.”

Derek turned his gaze to the cameras, his face filling the screens all around the room. “Baby girl, if you’re watching this. We’ll find a way to come home. We love you and we’re not going to leave you alone in this world. Laura, we’re going to fight for you.”

Laura waved her hands about, her face crinkled with a smile.

The broadcast grew to a deafening roar as the crowd began to howl and shout in protest. Among the jumbled cries were distinct voices that screamed, “Let them go home,” or “Call off the Games.”

Danny ushered Derek back towards the other tributes.

Derek joined Stiles and took the smaller boy’s hand in his own.

One by one, the tributes took a hold of each other’s hands or laced their fingers together. They stood, united, and raised their hands high into the air.

The rioting crowd grew louder. The crowd screamed, shouted and howled as the gathered crowd became a stampede and a few citizens dared to start fights with the armed guards. People rose from their seats and began to throw things at the peacekeepers who guarded the stage.

The broadcast was cut short.

The screed dissolved into darkness.

Laura sat back against Isaac’s stomach and began to wail.

Isaac looked at Scott, panicked.

Scott took Laura in his arms and held her close as he whispered to both the baby and to Isaac, “They’ll be okay. Everything is going to be alright.”

Melissa froze for a moment.

“Do you hear that?” she whispered.

“I don’t hear anything,” Scott replied.

“Exactly.” She met her son’s gaze and sighed with relief.

 

Scott used to be a heavy sleeper but, ever since Isaac came to live with them, he had quickly developed a habit of stirring at the quietest of sounds. And in all those years, Stiles was the only one who could sneak past without waking him. So it was only normal that he stirred when Isaac’s voice – barely a whisper – pierced the quiet night air of the District.

Scott blinked himself awake and sat upright in his bed, looking across the room to where Isaac sat on the floor beside side of Laura’s crib.

She had obviously woken and begun to whimper the way she would when she was woken by nightmares. She wasn’t like other babies; she didn’t scream or cry after being startled awake, she would just whimper and babble until someone came to comfort her.

Isaac had woken first and picked her out of the crib, holding her ever so carefully in his arms. He was talking to her softly, trying to settle her back to sleep.

He heard Isaac whisper, “It’s okay, I get nightmares too.”

Scott sighed quietly and rose from the bed, pulling his blanket with him.

Isaac jumped slightly at the sound of the rustling fabric and groaning floorboards as the older boy moved across the room and sat down next to Isaac and Laura.

Scott held up the edge of the blanket and laid it across Isaac’s shoulders, pulling the boy into his arm as he looked down at the baby girl in his arms.

Laura’s face was streaked tears, the trails glistening in the thin veil of moonlight that crept through the window.

“But everything will be okay,” Isaac continued, “If we’re good then Stiles and Derek will come home and we’ll be a family again. Until then, you have us and we will love you and take care of you, I promise.”


	10. Chapter 10

Today was the day.

The district was silent as everyone gathered around the televisions and waited for the Games to begin.

When the broadcast began, the tension became unbearable.

The screens were lit with the faces of the twenty-four tributes, each dressed in a black jumpsuit with silver seams, stitching and minor details. There were sections of grey padding that were spread across their chests, hips and gauntlets. It had a few pockets, but nothing big enough to hold supplies. The shoulders were covered in bright white panels, but they lacked District numbers like they had on last year’s outfits and all the years before. The fabric was thin but breathable. A pair of thick padded boots with thin rubber soles were strapped around their feet. A small sheath was fastened around their calves, a small hunting knife secured in its place.

The camera turned and focused on Stiles. His breathing was shallow and ragged, his shoulders heaving up and down. In the glare of the light from the arena, Scott could make out the trails of tears that covered Stiles’ cheeks.

John did too, but he didn’t say anything.

The side of the screen was reserved for the narrow panel that held the countdown, bold numbers that chimed loudly like a thundering drum as they counted down.

60 seconds.

Most of the tributes braced themselves against the edge of their podiums, ready to dive into the glittering sapphire pool of water in front of them.

40 seconds.

The camera focused on Derek, the older boy looking at the faces of nearby tributes before turning his cold eyes on the glorious loot of the cornucopia.

“You don’t think they’re going to risk it, do you?” Melissa rasped.

“They have to if they’re going to survive,” John replied.

30 seconds.

The camera panned across the arena before sopping on the vicious face of the male tribute from District One, Donovan. The teen’s face was contorted into a wicked smile as he pointed across the arena at Stiles and then ran his thumb across his throat, making the motion of slitting Stiles’ throat.

Scott swallowed hard.

20 seconds.

Melissa reached across the couch and took a hold of her son’s hand, fighting back her own fear.

Chris leant forward, resting his hand on John’s shoulder but John didn’t feel it. His teary eyes were focused on his son’s face as the harsh reality of his son’s mortality hit him.

 _This may be the last time I see him_ , he realised, focusing on the boy’s expression of steely determination.

District Four’s Geyer said something to him and Stiles nodded. The boy leant forward and braced himself against the edge of his podium, ready to jump.

10 seconds.

 _That’s my son,_ John thought. _That’s my boy. Fight, Stiles. Fight and come home._

5.

4.

3.

2.

1.

They held their breaths.

Begin.

The world fell silent as tributes leapt from their podiums. Everything was still for a moment, as if reality had slowed and the tributes were caught in the moment of weightlessness.

There was a loud crash as the water engulfed them, bringing back a rush of sound.

In that second, a thought struck him.

“Stiles can’t swim,” he gasped.

John clenched his fists in his lap and watched as Stiles wound his arms around Geyer’s shoulders and held on as the man glided through the water.

They reached the cornucopia and he let his breath fall past his lips.

Stiles grabbed the rocky ledge and climbed up before reaching back to help pull Geyer up.

Geyer reached up for his hand and Stiles helped the man climb up onto the rocky isle.

A couple of tributes were taken out instantly: tossed into the water and left to drown, knocked to the ground by thrown punches and trampled by other tributes or necks snapped by brute strength.

The sound of breaking bones was sickening, making John’s stomach churn and bile rose into his throat. But it became so much worse when Stiles was lost among the flurry of limbs and supplies.

“I can’t see him,” Isaac muttered.

The cornucopia became a slaughter house: tributes were impaled and torn to shreds by other tributes, their limp, bloody bodies tossed aside as others greedily snatched bags, food, weapons, or anything they could get their hands on.

Isaac clung to Scott and whimpered, “Where’s Stiles?”

The female tribute from District Three ran into the mess, only to be fought off by Geyer, his movements agile as he blocked her blows and disarmed her. She bounced, back ready for a fight when her footing slipped on the wet rocks. She fell backwards and hit her head on the rocky ledge with a gut-wrenching crack.

A thick wave crashed against the island, foaming trails of water filtering through the grooves of the rough rocks. They rolled over her cold, still body, slowly dragging her lifeless corpse into the churning water.

“There,” Scott gasped, pointing to where a tribute hurried across the wet rocks and collected the sword that had fallen from the hand of the girl from District Three.

Just ahead of him was Stiles, rifling through bags of supplies. He grabbed one and tossed it to the approaching figure, shouting something to him.

The boy nodded, shrugging the bag on before sprinting to the other side of the cornucopia to find Lori.

Stiles picked up another backpack and slid it onto his back. He grabbed a gleaming silver spear from the nearby rack and spun around.

Melissa gasped as Stiles swung at the large figure that loomed over him. His blow was blocked by the polished metal blade of an axe.

Stiles froze.

Among the chaos and noise they could make out the words of a familiar husky voice as he asked, “Heading my way?”

Stiles smiled up at Derek and replied, “You bet.”

Derek took Stiles’ hand. He laced their fingers together and led the boy through the crowd and towards the rocky lines that divided the podiums.

They all let out a collective sigh.

Stiles and Derek had each other, that’s all that mattered.

The two sprinted towards the shoreline.

The delayed cannon fire began: two shots.

Stiles stumbled to a halt, his attention drawn to the thrashing in the water. Between the foaming waves, he caught a glimpse of the boy that struggled to fight off another tribute.

“Mason!” Stiles called.

Derek froze and spun around. Without a second’s hesitation, he passed Stiles his axe and dove into the water.

“Stiles,” Marin called as she, Geyer, Paige and Hayden sprinted up to his side. “I can’t find Mason.”

Stiles looked out towards the water.

Geyer’s eyes turned to the thrashing water. He passed Hayden his trident and readied himself to jump in, but froze.

The water stilled.

Melissa instinctively grabbed John’s hand.

John rotated his wrist and held her hand, giving a gentle reassuring squeeze.

No-one took their eyes off the screen.

“Where’s Derek?” Isaac muttered, his lips quivering as tears welled up in his eyes.

John felt his heart sink into his gut.

The water was silent and undisturbed. The rippling surface showed no sign of movement.

A cannon fired over hear, the thundering boom shattering the air.

“Derek?!”

Stiles’ cry tore through all of them.

The water erupted as two figures leapt to the surface.

Derek paddled backwards, pulling Mason’s frail body with him as they younger boy shuddered as he coughed up a lungful of water.

Geyer and Marin helped pull the boys out of the water.

“Get to shore,” Derek panted.

Stiles led the way, followed by Hayden and Geyer who was carrying Mason’s trembling body.

Marin hoisted Derek’s arm around her shoulders and helped him stumble onto the wet sand.

A sharp whistle tore through the air, silenced when it struck a solid object with a heavy thud.

Paige let out a pained yelp.

The group of tributes turned around, eyes wide with fear.

The cameras focused in on the young girl.

Paige swallowed hard, body trembling with shock as she glanced down at the arrow jutting from her chest.

Melissa gasped, pulling her hand free of John’s hold and clamping it over her mouth.

The cameras changed angles for a moment, focussing on the Desert Wolf as she lowered her crossbow.

“How cold hearted do you have to be to kill someone from your own District?” Scott mused.

“That’s just who she is,” Chris buttered. “She a Career who’s out to be the next victor, and she knows how much Paige meant to Derek.”

They all turned to look at Chris, their expressions showing their confusion.

“Paige and Derek used to be good friends, the only friend Derek had in Two,” Chris explained.

“Who told you that?” Melissa asked.

“Derek did,” Chris replied. “We were talking about our lives were like back in Two.”

Their attention was drawn back to the television as the cameras changed again, this time to a close up of Paige’s face.

Her dark brown eyes were misted with tears as her slender fingers coiled around the thin arrow shaft that jutted out of her chest.

“No, don’t,” Derek cried as she drew it out of her body.

Streams of thick blood gushed from the wound.

She whimpered and choked on her breath, collapsing to the ground.

Derek shrugged Marin off and sprinted to the girl’s side, dropping to his knees and lifting her into his arms. He carried her past the tree line where they were sheltered from the world.

Marin turned her eyes across the arena, livid with rage as she spotted the heartless woman who held the crossbow. She snarled and tightened her grip on her weapon, kicking up her heels and sprinting off after the Desert Wolf.

The two of them disappeared among the dense trees.

The screen split into multiple boxes, each following a group of tributes: the careers, Marin and the Desert Wolf, Brett and Lori, Noshiko and Satomi, and finally Stiles and the rest of the group.

The Gamemakers chose to focus on the latter, enlarging the screen so others could watch on helplessly as Derek sat down at the foot of the tree with Paige in his arms.

He leant back against the jagged mess of tangled mangrove roots, cradling the frail girl’s body against his chest.

“No, no, no,” he pleaded breathlessly, pressing his hand to the gaping wound. Streams of blood spilled over his trembling hands.

Crystal-like tears streaked her cheeks, clearing away the dirt and grime that smeared her face.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” she rasped.

Derek was too panicked to reply. His lips quivered around unspoken words as his eyes flittered back and forth from his blood-soaked hand that was pressed to her wound and her pale face.

“Derek,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not okay,” Derek stammered.

The older boy carefully brushed the loose strands of hair away from Paige’s face.

Her breathing was shallow, nothing more than frail wisps of air that passed her trembling lips. Paige shuddered in his arms, coughing and gasping for air. Blood dripped across her lips.

“Please,” Paige muttered. “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t…”

“No…” Derek gasped, soft tears felling down his cheeks.

“Derek… Please,” Paige whimpered.

Derek pressed his head against hers. He reached down and unsheathed the hunting knife that was strapped to his calf.

Scott grabbed Isaac, pulling him up onto the couch and burying the boy’s face into his shirt, sheltering him from what was about to happen. He turned his face away, resting his cheek on Isaac’s curls as he felt the boy’s tears soak the frail cotton of his shirt.

He heard Derek whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Paige let out a strangled gasp as the blade tore through her chest.

Scott glanced up as her body trembled slightly before collapsing weakly in Derek’s arms. She let out a soft sigh as her eyes fluttered shut slightly. Her head lolled to the side, falling weakly against Derek’s chest.

The cannon fired.


	11. Chapter 11

The echoing boom shook tears from all of them, tributes and viewers alike.

Isaac broke into a relentless wail.

Scott wound his arms around the boy’s frail body, talking to him softly and soothing the younger boy as he carried Isaac up to this play room. He shut the door behind them.

John, Melissa and Chris watched on, heartbroken and numb, as Derek sniffed back his tears and withdrew his blood-soaked hand. He reached down, drew Paige’s hunting knife and slid it into his sheath before rising to his feet, lifting Paige into his arms and carrying her back to the shore. He set her down in the shallows where the rippling water gently swayed against her unmoving limbs.

Derek took a step back and turned to face the others.

Stiles met his gaze and stepped forward.

Derek knowingly reached out for his hand and Stiles obliged, sliding his hand into Derek’s and brushing his fingers against the older boy’s palm ever so lightly, just enough to let Derek know he was there.

It was a familiar gesture, one that they had seen the two of them do often when Stiles got lost in his nightmares and memories or when Derek felt isolated and alone. For them, it broke barriers.

Derek curled his hand around Stiles’, holding it tight and feeling his warmth.

They stood in silence for a minute, waiting for Derek to react somehow: cry, lash out or say something, but he was silent.

After a second, Derek turned his gaze to the others, his steely composure returning. He turned to look at Stiles.

The boy averted his gaze, hanging his head and looking at the streams of colour where the green undergrowth bled into the sand.

“Stiles,” Derek said softly, almost warningly.

The boy didn’t look up.

Derek gave Stiles’ hand a gentle squeeze and narrowed his cold glare on the boy.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Derek asked.

“Nothing,” Stiles rasped, an obvious lie.

“There’s something you need to say, I can tell. So tell me, what is it?”

Stiles swallowed hard.

“You can tell me,” Derek whispered.

Stiles blinked back another wave of tears. His voice broke slightly, faltering as he said, “They killed Deaton.”

“Who’s Deaton?” Melissa asked.

“Their stylist,” Chris explained, remembering the name mentioned in last year’s interviews. “And a good friend of Stiles’. He took care of them.”

“Why would they kill him?” Melissa rasped, fighting back more tears.

Chris watched as Derek’s composure fractured for a second, a deep set rage brewing behind his clear aventurine eyes.

“Because he refused to obey the Capitol,” Chris muttered. “He burnt Deucalion’s wedding gift to Stiles – that ridiculous outfit – and added fuel to the rebellion. He’s the spark that started it all.”

The sound of rustling bushes silenced their conversation.

Stiles let go of Derek’s hand and passed him his axe.

Derek used his free hand to guide Stiles behind his built form, shielding him.

Stiles adjusted his hold on his spear and tightened his grip.

Geyer stepped forward, shielding Hayden and Mason with his body as he gripped his trident and readied himself to attack.

A slender figure pounced out from behind the thick foliage, panting ruggedly.

Stiles leapt forward, putting himself between the incomer and the others and instantly putting a halt to the readied attack.

Once he was sure no-one was going to start a fight, Stiles turned to face Marin.

John let out a heavy sigh and muttered, “That kid’s going to be the death of me.”

Melissa smiled and chuckled breathlessly. “He does know how to get our blood pressure up.”

“Yeah, by jumping in harm’s way every damn day,” John said quietly.

Melissa reached across and took her friend’s hand in her own. She met his soft blue eyes and whispered, “He’s going to be okay.”

John looked up at the television and watched as Stiles wound the bandage around Marin’s wounded arm and tied it in place. Once done, he took a step back and picked up his bag again.

Marin rolled her eyes at the boy. “Can we please get going now?”

Derek took the lead, hacking at the thick vines that blocked their path with his axe. He shoved aside the branches of larger trees and led the team through the suffocating chaparral.

The others trailed behind him, Geyer still keeping an eye on Mason and Derek.

They trudged uphill through the dense foliage. They braced themselves against the rigid trunks of palm trees and hoisted themselves up the muddy slopes

They tried to move quietly and with caution, jolting at the gut-wrenching sounds of pained cries that filled the arena.

John felt his heart skip a beat as Stiles paused, turning to look about the shadows of the greenery.

Something was off.

“Are you okay?” Marin asked quietly, her dark eyes looking at the boy with care and worry.

Stiles kept his eyes fixed on the faint glimmer of sapphire blue water downhill. “You know, when you’re drowning you don’t actually inhale until right before you black out,” he said, rambling slightly. “It’s called voluntary apnoea. It’s like no matter how much you’re freaking out, the instinct to not let the water in is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel like your head is exploding.”

His voice weakened slightly as he continued, “Then, when you finally do let it in, that’s when it stops hurting. It’s not scary anymore… It’s actually kind of peaceful.”

John’s heart sank into his stomach.

Melissa turned to look at him.

They knew exactly what the boy was talking about, the horrific incident that they had long repressed but had never truly forgotten.

They remembered hearing the sound of thrashing water and Claudia’s frustrated cries from outside their old house. They remembered the gut-wrenching silence that followed as they shoved open the door and ran into the house. They remembered the sight of Stiles’ limp body in the bathtub as Claudia sat back on her feet and drew in heavy breaths. They remembered the indescribable sense of fear as John lifted Stiles’ body out of the bathtub and set him down on the damp floorboards. They remembered how John fought to hold Claudia back while she screamed at Melissa, begging her not to save him and to just let the boy die. They remembered the wave of panic that crashed over them as Melissa pushed her hands against Stiles’ chest over and over again. They remembered the sound of painful coughing as Stiles hurled up lungfuls of water and the sweet relief they felt when they heard him draw breath again. They remembered the terror and rage in Claudia’s eyes as John wrestled her flailing limbs and carried her off to their bedroom. They remembered the months they spent wracked with guilt and haunted by the thought of Stiles dying if they had been one minute later.

John hung his head. How many times had he excused her actions? How many times had he told himself it was the illness?

John watched as Marin took a step closer.

“Stiles,” she said softly, craning her neck slightly to look him in the eye. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles replied abruptly, snapping out of his trance and looking away dismissively. He turned around and took a few steps forward, catching up with the rest of their group. “Aside from the not sleeping, the jumpiness, the constant, overwhelming, crushing fear that something terrible is about to happen.”

“It’s called hypervigilance,” Marin whispered. “It’s the persistent feeling of being under threat.”

“But it’s not just a feeling,” Stiles countered, keeping his voice quiet and even. “It’s… it’s like a panic attack. You know, like I can’t even breathe.”

“Like you’re drowning?” Marin offered.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed.

“So if you're drowning and you're trying to keep your mouth closed until that very last moment, what if you choose to not open your mouth? To not let the water in?” she asked.

“You do anyway,” Stiles told her. “It's a reflex.”

Marin pushed a curtain of vines aside and let Stiles step past. “But if you hold off until that reflex kicks in, you have more time, right?”

Stiles thought about it for a second. “Not much time.”

“But more time to fight your way to the surface?” Marin proposed, lifting her brow slightly.

Stiles shrugged. “I guess.”

“More time to be rescued,” Marin added.

“More time to be in agonizing pain,” Stiles corrected. “I mean, did you forget about the part where you feel like your head's exploding?”

“If it's about survival, isn't a little agony worth it?” Marin asked.

“But what if it just gets worse?” Stiles countered. “What if it's agony now and then and it's just hell later on?”

“Then think about something Winston Churchill once said, ‘if you're going through hell, keep going’,” she proposed.

“And what if help isn’t coming?” Stiles asked.

 _One minute later_ , John thought.

“What if help is too late?” Stiles rasped.

Marin looked at him, her dark eyes unsteady as she promised, “Help will always come. And if they’re too late, then you died fighting.”

Stiles glanced uphill, watching Derek’s swift movements as he brushed aside the thinner vines and hacked and the unpassable veils. He watched as the gleaming blade of Derek’s axe tore through the thick vines effortlessly.

Stiles’ feet faltered as he pulled up to a halt.

Something wasn’t right.

He squinted sceptically at the dense foliage.

Derek raised his axe to swing.

Stiles screamed, “Derek, no!”

There was a thundering bang and an eruption of sparks.

The shockwave sent the group toppling backwards.

John tried to gasp, but air escaped him. His lungs burnt as his heart pounded against his ribs.

The cameras focused on the tributes.

No-one was moving.

After what felt like an eternity, they began to stir. Mason and Hayden rose first, then Stiles and the others. All but Derek.

“Derek,” Stiles rasped, crawling forward across the leaf-littered ground. “Derek.”

He rolled the older boy onto his back, exposing his charred jumpsuit and burnt flesh, and shook him gently.

“Derek,” Stiles whimpered, almost begging him to wake up, but his eyes remained shut. He didn’t respond.

“No,” John whispered, tears streaking his vision as he watched on helplessly.

Stiles rested his trembling hand on Derek’s chest.

“He’s not breathing,” the boy cried. “He’s not breathing!”

Stiles rested his head against Derek’s chest.

He waited a second.

His face contorted into an expression of horror and fear.

“Derek!” Stiles screamed, shaking the older boy’s limp body. He began to panic, resorting to slapping Derek’s hollow cheeks as he cried his name over and over.

Tears streaked Melissa’s cheeks, falling over the ridges of her fingers as she cried into her hands.

Geyer was on his feet in a second. He raced to Derek’s side and dropped to his knees. He pinched Derek’s nose shut.

“No!” Stiles howled, hurling himself at Geyer.

The man reacted quickly, grabbing Stiles by the front of his suit and threw him down the small incline.

Geyer turned his sharp gaze on Marin and pointed at Stiles as he ordered, “Hold him down.”

Marin did as instructed. She pinned the boy’s arms to his side and held him back.

Stiles screamed and thrashed about as Geyer pinched Derek’s nose again and leant forward. Tears roll down his cheeks as Derek’s name fell past his lips in a weak sob.

Geyer brought his mouth to Derek’s.

Everyone froze.

After a second, they realised what Geyer was doing. They watched as Geyer blew air into Derek’s lungs, making the older boy’s chest rise and fall.

Geyer sat back and pressed the heels of his palms to Derek’s chest. He pushed down and began to pump his hands in a steady rhythm.

“Come on, Derek,” Geyer panted. “Come on.”

“Derek,” Stiles sobbed quietly, stilling enough that Marin relinquished her hold on the boy. He crawled forward and took Derek’s hand in his, watching closely for any sign of life. “Derek, please, wake up.”

Geyer leant forward again, bringing his mouth to Derek’s before returning to the steady rhythm of pushing against Derek’s ribs.

“No,” John pleaded. “No.”

Everyone watched on in silence, helpless and heartbroken as Stiles cried over Derek’s unmoving body.

“Come on, Derek,” Geyer begged. “Come on, Derek, you’ve got to wake up. Come on!”

His heavy tears rolled down John’s cheeks, falling from his chin and shattering against the back of his hand.

There was a slight cough and a quiet rasp.

“Derek?” Stiles said hopefully.

Geyer sat back, looking down at the older boy.

Derek’s body shook slightly as he drew in a breath. His eyes fluttered slightly but they didn’t open. His lips quivered as he muttered something.

“What?” Stiles asked, leaning in closer.

The cameras zoomed in so the microphones could pick up the older boy’s quiet words

“Look out... for… the barrier… up ahead.”

Stiles let out a sigh of relief, allowing himself to chuckle slightly. He laid down and rested his head again Derek’s chest, listening for the steady drumming of his heartbeat. He sat back on his heels again, sobbing as he brushed back the limp black locks of Derek’s hair.

Derek gently shushed him, reaching up with a trembling hand and gently brushing the backs of his fingers against the boy’s soft, tear-stained cheek before blinking his eyes open again.

“You were dead,” Stiles sobbed. “Your heart stopped.”

“It’s okay,” Derek whispered reassuringly. “It’s working now. I’m alright.”

John let out a heavy sigh.

Melissa let a heavy, shuddering breath fall past her lips as her entire body weakened.

John leant across the couch and pulled her against his chest, holding her close as she was overcome with another wave of tears, ones of relief this time.

Chis rounded the edge of the couch and sat on her other side, rubbing soothing circles into her back.

John looked up at the screen.

Derek’s hands trembled slightly as he reached up and brushed away the tears that caressed Stiles’ cheeks.

Stiles ran his hand over Derek’s, his trembling fingers feeling the soft patches of skin, the ridges of his knuckles and the smooth surface of the cold silver ring.

“Do you want to stand up?” Stiles asked, his voice breaking slightly as he spoke.

Derek nodded. He let out a pained grunt as Stiles helped him sit upright.

The younger boy wrapped his arms around Derek, grabbing at fistfuls of his clothes and desperately clinging to him. He buried his face into the curve of the older boy’s neck and cried.

Derek gently shushed him, patting down the boy’s tousled locks and whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

Geyer let out a sigh of relief and slumped back against a nearby tree with a heavy thud.

“Anyone got any water?” he asked.

Marin stepped forward and looked through Stiles’ backpack, letting the boy stay where he was with his arms wrapped around Derek. After a second she took a step back and shook her head.

“Okay, we’ll rest for a little while and then get moving,” Geyer announced. “Maybe there’s a spring or something over the ridge.”

“I can say for certain that there is nothing that way,” Derek muttered, pointing to the barrier which had regenerated and returned to the realistic image of vines and the illusion of distance.

John couldn’t help but smile at the comment.

Geyer rolled his eyes and smirked. “At least your sense of humour is intact.”


	12. Chapter 12

By the time the group were moving again, the light in the arena had begun to dwindle and dusk was settling in.

The group moved quietly through the maze of vines and tree trunks.

Marin took the lead, holding onto a handful of rocks and tossing them to her side to test where the barrier was before swinging her tomahawk and slicing through the vines.

Although Derek was back on his feet and walking again, Geyer was wary of his condition. He walked beside the older boy, occasionally setting a hand between Derek’s shoulder blades to steady him or help him up inclines.

Stiles followed behind them, his eyes fixed on the ground as he followed the other’s footsteps.

Chris had disappeared into the kitchen at some point and had begun to make dinner: soup and fresh bread. He had left a few minutes ago to take some to the shelter.

“Melissa,” Isaac whispered from the doorway.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Can I please have a glass of water?” Isaac asked.

“Of course you can,” Melissa said with a sweet smile and rose to her feet, leading Isaac into the kitchen and leaving John all alone in the lounge room.

He sighed and sat back on the couch, watching as the group stopped and turned to look at Stiles.

Derek glanced from Stiles to the shadows of the bush that the boy’s gaze lingered on.

“Stiles?” Derek asked cautiously. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you hear that?” Stiles whispered.

“Hear what?” Marin asked.

Stiles took a step forward.

“Stiles,” Derek said warningly.

“You can’t hear that?” Stiles muttered, his eyes focused on a something beyond the shadows.

“I don’t hear anything,” Hayden replied. “What do you hear?”

He swallowed hard and weakly answered, “Screaming.”

“No,” John pleaded breathlessly. “Not again.”

Stiles took another step forward.

“Stiles,” Derek called again, his voice hinting at a warning.

Stiles was listening to the sounds among the foliage.

There it was again: the familiar broken wail of a terrified child.

“Isaac,” Stiles whispered.

“Stiles,” Derek said firmly. “It’s just like last year. They’re trying to mess with you.”

“What if it’s real this time?” Stiles asked.

Derek opened his mouth to reply when another scream echoed through the forest.

“Scott,” Stiles gasped.

Before anyone could stop him, Stiles picked up his heels and raced off through the dense greenery.

“Scott! Isaac!” he shouted, sprinting deeper into the forest. He wove through the trees, calling for the boy.

“Stiles,” Derek called after him.

John bowed his head, covering his ears as he whispered to himself, “Not again. Not again.”

In the other room, he heard Isaac crying and wailing, “I’m here! I’m not there! I’m not there!”

Scott raced downstairs and helped his mother shush Isaac.

John drew in a deep breath and dared to look up at the screen.

Stiles had stopped in the centre of a small clearing, listening as the screams swirled around him and faded into the shadows. He caught sight of the flittering black bird among the foliage. His eyes darted about the undergrowth. He grabbed a rock and hurled it at the bird.

It hit the jabberjay and knocked it from the sky. The bird fell to the ground, the agonising screams dying away as its body twitched and the life drained from its corpse.

“Thank God,” John gasped, relieved by the quiet that settled over them.

The bushes rustled.

Stiles spun around and tightened his grip on his weapon, ready to fight.

A young girl sprinted through the thick curtain of vines, pulling up to a stop before him.

Her face was familiar, the girl from District Ten.

“Tracy?” Stiles gasped.

The girl nodded.

Another scream broke through the quiet greenery.

Stiles wheeled around, sharp eyes piercing the bushes.

“Tracy,” he yelled over the rising volume of screams. “We have to go. Run!”

He grabbed Tracy’s hand and ran back the way he had come, towards Derek’s voice.

Derek burst into the clearing, striking a barrier with a thundering boom. It didn’t electrify him this time, but it did knock him back slightly. He quickly regained his balance and thumped his fists against the barrier.

Stiles pulled up to a halt before the force field, eyes wide with panic as he looked at Derek.

The screams returned.

They multiplied, intensified, filling their ears with the familiar sounds of screaming loved ones: Isaac, Scott, Allison, Chris, Deaton, Melissa, Claudia, and the screams of those who Derek loved and hundreds of others they didn’t know.

“It’s not real,” Derek shouted, his voice muffled slightly by the barrier as he pressed his forehead against the barrier.

Stiles mirrored the older boy, pressing his hands against the barrier as tears of fear streaked his cheeks.

“It’s not real!” Derek howled.

Stiles dropped his spear and cupped his hands over his ears.

Tracy did the same.

They dropped to their knees, pained screams falling from their own lips.

“No,” Derek muttered weakly. “No, Stiles…”

The piercing screeches, deafening cries and broken wails rose to a tidal wave of painful wailing as they threatened to break the speakers.

Among the screams, Stiles could hear Tracy’s pained cries.

Stiles spun around, peering through the suffocating mess of fluttering birds and inky black feathers to see the girl’s shuddering body. He stumbled as he rose to his feet and dragged his body over to her side. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her close, cradling her trembling body against his chest. He arched over her and used his body to shield her.

They were lost among the flittering black birds.

A wave of jabberjays slammed into Stiles, hurling him away from Tracy and knocking him to the ground.

John yelped, instinctively shifting forward to reach for his son.

Melissa ran into the lounge room, pulling John into her arms and trying to comfort him.

His breathing was hollow as a feeling of helplessness set in. His eyes burnt with tears as he watch the tides of birds swarmed around Stiles and Tracy, feathers raining over them.

The birds swooped down at them. Sharp beaks and jagged talons tore open exposed flesh and shredded their clothes.

The light strobed as shadows passed over their faces.

Stiles fell still.

One of the birds flew in low, smacking into the side of Stiles’ face, knocking him to the side.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t fight back.

“Stiles,” John whimpered, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Tidal waves of bides flooded the confined space, spiralling around Stiles and tearing at his flesh with razor-sharp beaks and jagged claws. They hit him over and over again, knocking his limp body about.

“Stiles,” John cried.

The power shut off.

The broadcast cut off, the television returning to the cold black screen.

John’s tears grew heavier as he started at the dark abyss of the television. His lips quivered breathlessly as the boy’s name fell past his lips.

“Stiles?”


	13. Chapter 13

Chris hurried home, sprinting across the District streets and leaping over the fallen cast iron gates. He raced through the courtyard of the Victor’s Village and up the small patio that lined the front of the large manor. He shoved open the door and stepped inside.

Melissa stood in the doorway to the lounge room, looking from John to the Scott and Isaac. She spun around when she heard the door opened and rushed to Chris’ side, collapsing into his arms. She was reduced to tears in seconds, clawing at his shirt and mumbling incoherent words over and over again.

“I know, I know,” the man whispered, pulling her into his arms. “I saw.”

He gently patted down her dark, unruly curls and spoke softly to her. His quiet whispers and husky voice calmed her. He waited patiently for Melissa to settle down before setting her back on her own two feet. He craned his neck and looked her in the eye.

“John is going to need us,” he said quietly, cupping her cheek and gently brushing the tears off her cheeks. “And not a word to Scott or Isaac until we know for sure.”

“He wasn’t moving,” Melissa replied in a hushed voice, glancing into the lounge room to where John sat, unmoving and unresponsive, on the couch.

“No cannons fired,” Chris pointed out. “He could have just been unconscious. But until we know for sure, there’s no point in making the boys suffer.”

“Okay,” Melissa whispered.

“How much do the boys know?”

“Isaac came down for a glass of water and he heard Stiles screaming his name. It brought back all the memories from last year and he broke down: he curled up on the floor and started screaming,” Melissa explained. “I tried to calm him down and Scott came downstairs to help me. I told him to stay with Isaac while I checked on John. When I came in, John was in tears and Stiles was…”

“Attacked and then stopped moving,” Chris finished.

Melissa bit into her lip, fighting off her tears and nodded.

“Why don’t you go upstairs?” Chris suggested, brushing back a loose strand of hair that had fallen forward across her face.

“No, I’m fine,” Melissa lied. “I’ll get dinner ready for the boys if you take care of John.”

Chris nodded, pressing a kiss to Melissa’s forehead. “You need to eat too.”

She smiled weakly and whispered, “I will, but Scott and Isaac come first.”

Chris glanced over her shoulder at where Scott and Isaac sat at the table. Scott had his arms wrapped around Isaac, talking softly to him about how jabberjays copy people’s cries, how and Stiles didn’t know Isaac wasn’t there and how the Capitol were trying to scare Stiles by making him think Isaac was in the arena too.

He watched as Melissa made her way through to the kitchen and quickly dished bowlfuls of soup and sliced the fresh bread. She brought two over to the table and passed them to the boys before returning to dish some for herself, Chris and John.

Chris made his way into the lounge room and sat down on the couch next to John. His cool blue eyes rolled over John’s weary face, taking in his traumatised appearance: his face was pale, his cheeks were stained by tears and his features were moulded into an unwavering petrified expression.

He waited patiently for John to speak.

“I know I could lose him,” John muttered weakly, staring into the oblivion beyond the dusty black television screen. “I knew that if he went into those Games, he may never come out again and I’ve come so close to losing him so many times, but now that it’s happened…”

“It hasn’t,” Chris whispered. “Not yet.”

“Did you not see him lying there?”

“The cannon didn’t fire,” Chris argued.

“Maybe we just didn’t hear it,” John countered.

“John, there’s still a chance he’s not dead,” Chris said. “But if you give up on him now, then he might as well be.”

John turned to look his friend in the eye, watching as Chris’ bright blue irises refused to waver. His expression weakened, filling with sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered. “I never understood how it felt for you to lose Allison and I feel like I should have done more… I’m sorry.”

“You did more than I ever could have asked,” Chris assured him. “You took me in and gave me a home and a family when I thought I had lost everything.”

John was silent.

“And what’s more, you raised a son that became her best friend and who gave her honour in death. You raised your son to be a good man.”

Chris reached across the couch and set his hand on his friend’s shoulder, levelling his eyes with John.

“We have Melissa and the boys and we have each other,” Chris said softly. “If Stiles is alive then Peter is going to send care packages and do everything in his power to keep our boys alive and safe. And you know Derek won’t leave his side. Stiles will be okay.”

John nodded.

“How’s everyone else?”

“The boys don’t know and Melissa’s struggling to hold herself together,” Chris explained.

“How about the others in the District?” John asked.

“Upset and threatening to rebel, but what’s new?” Chris jested. “Bobby Finstock helped me keep everyone calm but I can hear rioting beyond the walls. The other Districts are in an uproar.”

John let out a defeated sigh. “What are we going to do?”

“What we’re going to do is stay strong,” Chris said firmly. “And until the power starts up again and we get the broadcast tomorrow, we just have to have hope that Stiles is alive.”


	14. Chapter 14

John was woken by the low rumbling that disturbed the eerie quiet of the District. He quickly rose from his bed and pulled on a jacket and his boots. He hurried out into the hallway, noticing that the sound had also woken the rest of the household.

Chris, Melissa and the boys lingered in their doorways, peering around the doorframes and glancing at each other.

“What’s going on?” Isaac mumbled, leaning his head against Scott’s shoulder as he struggled to stay awake.

“I don’t know, buddy,” John replied. “Why don’t you go back to bed until we find out?”

“Okay,” Isaac muttered, turning around and returning to his bed.

John took a few steps towards the staircase, listening to the sounds of the District.

There was no crackling fire or painful screams this time.

He turned his gaze to Scott.

“Stay here with Isaac and your mum,” John instructed softly. “At the first sign of trouble, run for the meadow and beyond the fence, got it?”

Scott nodded.

Melissa made her way down the hall and wrapped his arms around Scott’s broad shoulders, holding him close against her side.

Chris made his way over to John and followed his friend downstairs and out the front door. They were quiet as they crossed the courtyard and stood by the fallen boulders and bricks that had once made the fence of the Victor’s Village. They leant around the large pillars that marked the gates and looked out into the streets of District Twelve.

Their eyes were drawn towards the large trucks and armoured vehicles that drove through the quiet, muddy streets.

John’s cold glare fell upon the captain of the guard, watching as the man climbed into the back of one of the armoured Jeeps. A few of the Capitol-assigned peacekeepers followed suit, piling into the large jeeps or climbing into the back of the heavy trucks.

“Where are they going?” John muttered under his breath, squinting as he tried to make out any hidden shapes or silhouette among the dull, moonlit District.

“To one of the other Districts maybe?” Chris proposed. “Some of them are staying behind, to keep an eye on us probably. Maybe they’re just sending that sadistic asshole and a few of his enforcers away to punish the other Districts for rebelling.”

“Or maybe they’re planning something,” John offered.

“Like what?” Chris asked, keeping his voice low.

“I don’t know,” John admitted. “But maybe they’re evacuating because something is about to happen… something big and bad.”

One of the Capitol-assigned peacekeepers marched up to the two men.

“There’s a curfew in place, please return to your residence,” he instructed.

“Sorry,” Chris apologised. “We were woken by all the noise and were just worried about what was going on. Can you tell us what’s happening?”

“Orders from the Capitol,” the peacekeeper said bluntly. “Now return to your residence before I am forced to punish you for insolence and disobedience.”

“We’re going,” Chris assured him, raising his hands defensively. He took a step back, gently tapping at John’s shoulder to encourage his friend to follow.

John looked the peacekeeper up and down before backing up and following Chris back into the Victor’s Village.

They waited until they were out of earshot of the peacekeeper before Chris whispered, “You were right, they’re up to something. What do we do?”

“We start by getting Melissa and the boys out of here,” John said, keeping his voice low as he glanced over his shoulder. He watched as the peacekeeper turned and marched away then continued, “Then we work out what’s going on and begin to evacuate the District.”

“How are we going to do that without alerting the peacekeepers?” Chris asked.

“Through the mines,” John proposed. “There’s an evacuation tunnel not too far from the meadow. If we can get people into the mines, we might be able to get them to the hole in the fence and get them out of the District quietly enough that we’ll go unnoticed.”

Chris stepped up onto the balcony and turned back to look at John. “And if all hell breaks loose?”

“Then forget the guards and get everyone to the fence as quick as possible.”

Chris nodded.

John stepped forward and pushed open the front door.

They stepped inside the house, met by an eerie quiet.

“Scott?” he called.

There was no answer.

“Maybe they left?” Chris offered.

“Their jackets are still here,” John pointed out.

John stepped over to the coat rack by the front door and pick up one of the jackets: Chris’ old hunting jacket that he had given Isaac, the one that Isaac refused to leave the house without.

“Maybe they’re asleep,” Chris suggested.

“Scott,” John shouted into the darkness of the house, hurrying upstairs.

A second later, there was a rush of footsteps and the boy appeared at his bedroom door.

“Yeah?”

John let out a soft sigh and passed Scott Isaac’s jacket.

“Get your jackets, boots, blankets and anything you can carry that you can’t live without,” John instructed.

“Did something happen?” Scott asked, keeping his voice low in order not to scare Isaac.

“No,” John assured him. “But something might. There’s something going down that they’re not telling us about and I have a bad feeling about it. I just want you, Isaac and your mum out of the District, that way I know you’re safe in case something happens.”

“If nothing does, then we’ll come get you,” Chris added.

Scott nodded and disappeared into his room again.

John and Chris made their way back down the stairs, peering out through the windows and the front door.

A little while later, a very sleepy Isaac appeared at the foot of the stairs rubbing at his eyes.

Scott had somehow managed to wrestle the younger boy into a pair of jeans, a thick tee-shirt, his favourite jacket and a pair of boots.

A minute or two later, Scott and Melissa appeared at the bottom of the stairs, dressed and burdened by backpacks full of supplies: food, water, one or two of Isaac’s toys, blankets, socks, and a few other things.

Scott lifted Isaac into his arms, tucking the boy’s face into the curve of his neck.

“Where are we going?” Isaac mumbled.

“We’re going into the meadow,” Scott told him.

“But it’s night,” Isaac whined. “I’m tired.”

“I know,” Scott said softly. “But we’re going to have a special night tonight; we’re going to sleep under the trees and the stars. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Isaac mumbled something incoherently, nuzzling his face into Scott’s jacket and quickly falling asleep again.

Melissa made her way over to John’s side and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Stay low, stay quiet and stay safe,” John whispered.

“Promise me that as soon as something happened, you’ll get the hell out of this District,” Melissa replied, looking from John to Chris.

“We promise,” Chris answered.

Melissa leant forward and kissed Chris’ cheek too.

They could tell she was fighting back tears as she stepped back and crept out onto the balcony.

Scott followed but paused in the doorway. He turned around to look at the men.

His lips quivered around unspoken words as he struggled to organise the swarming thoughts.

“I can’t lose another dad," he whimpered weakly.

The man smiled sweetly and stepped forward. He pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“You won’t,” John assured him. “Stay safe, kiddo. We’ll see you soon.”

John and Chris stepped out into the courtyard. They watched Scott made his way over to his mother’s side.

Melissa took her son’s hand and they made their way around the back of the manor to the fence that ran along the outskirts of the District.

“They’ll be okay, right?” Chris asked.

“Of course they will be,” John whispered. “Scott knows that forest like the back of his hand, he’ll keep them safe.”

The two men stayed out in the open air, staring out across the streets as the armoured jeeps drove through the District gates and disappeared into the night.

Then, from among the onyx pool of the starry sky, they heard the quiet hum of a hovercraft. The sound grew louder as the buzzing engines began to swarm like the chittering wings of tracker jackers.

One by one, the people crept into the streets, their eyes drawn to the sky.

John and Chris made their way towards the gate of the Victor’s Village, their eyes rolling across the District and up at the ships.

“What the hell?” Chris muttered, looking up to watch the silhouettes of the ship disrupt the blanket of the sky as they hovered over the District.

John felt his heart sink into his gut.

He grabbed Chris’ shirt and pulled him to the ground as he shouted, “Get down!”

He barely had a second to react, leaping to Chris’ side and shielding his friend.

Then the bombs dropped.


	15. Chapter 15

The District was lit with dull orange glow that emitted a radiating brilliance of warmth.

John was laying on the ground, his body shaken by vibrations as heavy drumming sounds struck the ground.

The man drew in a deep breath and blinked his eyes open.

District Twelve was in chaos.

People were running about, screaming as the buildings collapsed around them. People were pinned between the rubble or wounded by the shrapnel of exploding buildings.

The air crafts flew over the Districts in waves, dropping a barrage of explosives before flying away, turning back and reloading the artillery to drop another wave of bombs.

It was thundering boom after thundering boom.

Between the waves, John would rise to his feet and race through the streets of District Twelve, shouting orders for all civilians to make their way to the meadow.

Another bomb dropped by the marketplace.

John was knocked off his feet and thrown against the wall of houses and fences by the shockwaves of the falling bombs.

Among the pained screams and ear-piercing whistles that broke the air, John shouted for everyone to make their way towards the fence.

John cupped his hands over his ears and looked up at the sky.

A large shell fell from the ship that hovered over the Justice Building.

He grabbed a hold of the boy that ran past him, pulling him to the ground and using his body to shelter the child from the blast.

“Are you okay?” he asked as he helped the boy to his feet. He paused as he saw the boy’s face. “Scott? What are you doing here?”

“Helping,” the boy answered.

“Where’s your mum?” John howled. “Where’s Isaac?”

“Safe,” Scott assured him. “Beyond the fence.”

A bomb dropped in the marketplace, dirt erupting and spraying over them. The air filled with the gut-wrenching sounds of shattering bones, squelching blood and gargled cries as people fell to the ground or were ignited and engulfed in fire.

John shielded Scott with his body as the rush of hot air, dirt and debris rolled over them.

“I want to help,” Scott argued.

“Fine. We’ve got forty seconds until the next wave,” John shouted over the roaring noise. “Chris is taking care of people in the mines, you take the shelter. Get everyone to the fence and get them out. Go!”

He watched as the boy ran through the rubble of the District and disappeared among the screaming crowd.

Two boys, covered in blood and dirt, ran up to John’s side.

“We want to help,” Ethan shouted over the noise.

“Get to the fence and help people get through,” John instructed.

The twins nodded and ran towards the fence.

John ran through the streets, helping usher people away from the bomb blasts, pulling people from the rubble and carrying children who couldn’t run.

When he finally reached the fence, he saw Ethan and Aiden prying open the metal chain-link fence and widening the hole to let more people through. The sharp barbs tore through their skin, drenching their hands in hot, sticky blood that threatened to weaken their hold. He

Chris and Scott were helping people duck under the hole, passing the wounded children through to people who could carry them into the safety of the woods.

“Peacekeepers!” Ethan shouted.

“Get through the fence,” Aiden barked, pushing his brother through the hole before ushering Scott through.

John paused.

“Go,” he instructed.

Aiden glanced over the man’s shoulder at the approaching guards.

Their guns were loaded and aimed at the men.

“I’ll buy you time,” Aiden whispered, resting his hand on John’s shoulder and encouraging the man through the hole.

John climbed through and turned back to look at Aiden.

Aiden met his gaze, his eyes glittering with pain, fear and defiance.

“Get Ethan out of here,” the teen called to him.

John nodded.

Aiden turned back around, weaving his arms through the woven wires and using his broad form to shield the hole in the fence.

“Aiden!” Ethan screamed, running back towards the fence.

John reached out and caught him before he could make it.

Chris and Scott ran to his side.

“Get him out of here,” John instructed, passing the thrashing teen to them.

They looped their arms around Ethan’s and dragged him back into the forest despite his protests.

Aiden ignored his brother’s heart-breaking cries, staring down the peacekeepers.

“Aiden…” John called weakly.

“ _Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes_ ,” the teen quoted before translating, “We protect those who cannot protect themselves. Now, go.”

John let out a heavy sigh and made his way into the woods. He stopped by the hollowed out tree trunk and collected the hunting weapons that the boys and Allison had hidden across the years.

He caught up with the rest of the group.

They were all huddled in the small clearing, hugging one another as they looked back down the small path with fearful teary eyes.

At first glance there seemed to be a few hundred of them, but most were injured. Melissa had done her best, tearing up clothes and using them as bandages to cover the gaping wounds, but they all knew that if they didn’t get proper medical treatment soon, they weren’t going to make it.

John passed Scott his weapon and sent him on ahead to lead the way. “We have to keep moving.”

“Where are we going?” Scott asked.

“Head south,” John instructed. “Maybe we’ll find shelter in the ruins of Thirteen.”

Scott kept his voice low as he whispered, “Do you really think there’s anything left?”

“We have to try.”

Scott took the lead.

The group began to filter into the shadows of the trees.

Ethan turned and looked at John.

“We have to go back,” he begged.

“We can’t,” John replied weakly.

“But Aiden’s still there,” the teen argued, tears welling up in his eyes. “You can’t leave him there!”

The loud boom of a gunshot echoed through the dark forest.

Ethan let out a defeated sigh, clutching his chest as the sound shook his tears from him.

His lips quivered and his glistening tears fell from his cheeks and shattered against the cool earth. A weak whisper fell from his lips.

“Aiden.”


	16. Chapter 16

John and Scott led the way through the forest while the others followed their cautious footfalls among the undergrowth. Their eyes rolled over the plants. Ferns, weeds, low growing bushes and shrubs, watching for any sign of movement.

The usual rich greens and tones of brown, gold and red were darkened by the shadows cast by the dull light of dawn, now a dreary mix of greys and heavy black shadows. Dense foliage hung overhead, enclosing the space, shutting out the sky and filtering the pale light of the dawn. Streams of golden light surrounded them, not enough to see clearly but just enough to distinguish shapes from shadows and to guide their way through the forest.

Occasionally, a plane from the Capitol would fly overhead and the group would split up, dispersing the heat signals and hiding among the camouflage provided by the nearby trees and shrubs. And only when they were sure the air crafts had passed did Scott or John give the signal to come out of their hiding places.

Their progress was stunted and slow. The injured were hobbling and tired children dragged their feet through the dense undergrowth, often stumbling or tripping.

Twigs and leaves rustled and broke beneath their feet. Fallen branches snagged at their calves, scratching at the skin beneath their pants and drawing small droplets of blood.

Among the dark shadows, John could make out the fluorescent bleached skeletons of the birch trees, their slender trunks lining the shadows with eye-like rings that watched them from all angles.

Scott slowed to a halt, his eyes focused on the thick bark of a pine tree.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, keeping his voice low.

“Those markings,” Scott replied, pointing at the engraved spiral that marred the tree trunk.

“Stiles, Allison and I used to see them all through the forest when we went hunting,” Scott explained, stepping over to the tree and running his fingers along the engraved grooves. “The more we head south, the more clustered they become.”

“Do you think they mean something?” John inquired.

“They could be track symbols,” Chris offered, stepping up to the boy’s side to look at the carved wood. “Hunters and foragers often put them through the forest so that if they get side-tracked while hunting game or lost while gathering. They’re laid out in a trail so you can follow them back to where you need to go and they become more frequent the closer you get to your destination.”

Scott looked up at the man. “So we’re close?”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” John muttered.

“Depends on where they lead,” Chris replied, stepping ahead of the group and leading them all towards the nearby clearing.

Just past the tree line was a large fence. Beyond the wire fence was a mess of fallen buildings: splintered wood, rubble and boulders that were piled where once-proud-standing guard towers, pillars, fences and houses had been. The ground had been upturned and blown away into craters. The grass had begun to regrow: lush and green as it covered the piles of dirt and ash. Vines, weeds, flowers and shrubs had grown over the ruins.

“What is this place?” Scott gasped.

Chris sighed and whispered, “District Thirteen.”

There was the sound of clicking, the recently all-too-familiar sound of a cocking guns.

Scott and Chris quickly notched their bows and pulled the strings taut. They aimed the arrows at the armed figures that emerged from the shadows.

“Lower your weapons!” one of the newcomers shouted.

“You haven’t given us a reason to,” Chris argued.

“You’re outnumbered,” the guard retorted.

“You’re out-skilled,” Chris countered.

From among the armed guards, an elderly-looking woman stepped forward. She had short cut hair and wasn’t dressed in armour like the others. Her weapons were holstered and she smiled at them as if Chris’ bravado amused her.

“Who are you?” the woman asked.

John stepped forward to speak for the others.

“My name is John Stilinski. We’re from District Twelve,” he explained. “Our District was bombed and we’re the only survivors.”

“Wait here,” she instructed. She turned and walked back behind the line of the guards, picking up the small walkie-talkie that one of them offered her. She spoke quietly for a minute or two, saying something and then waiting for a response.

After a moment, she handed the radio back and returned to speak with John.

“I’m Araya Calavera,” she said clearly. “Please, follow me.”

John nodded and looked at Scott and Chris.

They hesitated before lowering their weapons and climbing through a hole in the fence. They held the wire open and helped the refugees crawl under the chain link wire. They passed through the children who were wounded, too tired to walk, or asleep in the arms of those who carried them.

Melissa was at the back of the crowd, leading Isaac by his hand and helping the boy crawl through the fence.

Once they were all though, John followed and stepped to the front of the crowd.

Araya led the way and John followed.

“Are you sure we can trust them?” Chris asked, his voice a hushed whisper as the group moved through the ruins of the District.

“We don’t have much of a choice,” John replied.

“John,” Isaac whined, stumbling up to the man’s side. He rubbed at his eyes sleepily and reached up.

John couldn’t help but smile as he wound his arms around the slender boy. He lifted Isaac into his arms and cradled the boy into his warmth.

They walked for a few minutes before coming to a halt in a vine-covered cavern. Large boulders sheltered the small hollow and concealed a large metal door.

Araya made her way over to the door and lifted the cover of the security panel. She entered a code into the nearby keypad and unlocked the door, opening the large door and ushering everyone inside.

It took them all a second to adjust to the light. The hallway was lit by luminescent lights that stretched down the hallway, making everyone squint as they entered. It was a long hallway and at the end of it John could just make out the silhouettes of moving figures. A few of the dark shadows came down the hall to greet them, ushering them down the length of the hallway.

“Go right on through into the hangar bay. There will be medics there who will tend to your wounded,” Araya told John.

The man nodded and made his way down the hall. At the end was a large room, a metal cacoon that was lit by large floodlights. The roof was made of two large panels that were designed to open for airships to take off and land.

“People live here?” Scott asked, shocked. “I thought Thirteen was bombed.”

Araya Calavera looked down at the boy.

“District Thirteen was built over a labyrinth of bunkers and, being a military District, we used them to our advantage,” Araya explained. “The Capitol didn’t know about them so, when they saw that the surface had been reduced to ruins, they thought Thirteen had been destroyed. Truth be told, we’re thriving.”

Scott looked up at her, amazed as he took in the sights of the technologically developed shelter.

“We have quite a community,” Araya continued. “We’ve picked up people who have sought asylum from other Districts and the Capitol. Many of them are Avoxes, punished by the Capitol as children because they were scared of having their names called for the Games.”

The hangar was bustling with people: refugees huddling in group and medics rushing to help the wounded. From among the mess of limbs, John spotted a familiar face: a man with a strong jaw, dark eyes and short but thick brown hair.

John felt his breath fall short, his jaw tightening as he carefully set Isaac down on his feet. Every muscle in his body tensed with rage, his blood boiling in his veins.

John’s voice was low and harsh as he growled, “Rafe.”

“Hey,” Rafael McCall greeted, grinning. “Welcome to District Thirteen.”

“You son of a bitch!” John screamed, lunging forward at the man.

He clenched his fist and slammed it into Rafe’s jaw, knocking him to the ground.

Chris leapt forward and grabbed John’s arms pulling him back as the man thrashed about violently and shouted, “You were dead! All these years, you made us think you were dead!”

“How the hell did you survive?” Chris seethed, glaring viciously at Rafe as he struggled to hold John back.

Rafael clutched his jaw, carefully rubbing at the tender patch of bright red skin that was sure to bruise.

“The mines collapsed and I followed them out to the ventilation shafts in the forest,” he explained. “I dug my way out and walked until I was picked up by Thirteen’s guards.”

“You walked away?” Melissa cried, tears welling in the depths of her dark eyes. “And you never once thought to come home?”

“You wanted me gone,” Rafe argued. “You said Scott could be better off without me.”

“I wanted the drunkard out of my house, not his father out of his life,” Melissa countered. “You left us! You tucked your tail between your legs like a coward and abandoned us when we needed you.”

“Forget it, mum,” Scott interrupted, keeping his voice low as he glared at Rafe.

Everyone turned to look at the teen, shocked to hear him speak.

Scott lifted Isaac into his arms and carried the boy past Rafe, ignoring his presence as he stepped over to his mum’s side.

He nodded to the far end of the hangar and led her away for Rafe, only glancing over his shoulder to look down at the man with an expression of utter distain and disappointment. His voice was cold, a kind of harshness that John had never heard from him before as he said, “He’s right: we’re better off without him.”


	17. Chapter 17

Isaac bolted upright in the bed, his scream tearing at his throat and emptying his lungs.

Scott leapt from his bunk, dropping to the lower mattress and pulling the boy back against his chest. He pinned Isaac’s slender flailing arms to his side and held him in his warmth. He gently patted down the boy’s unruly curls and gently shushed him.

The boy’s heart-breaking wail died down to a soft sob as hot tears caressed his pale cheeks.

“It’s okay, Isaac,” Scott assured him. “We’re okay.”

“I want to go home,” the boy sobbed.

“We can’t, buddy,” Scott said apologetically. “We’re going to stay here for a while.”

“I don’t like it here,” Isaac whined.

“How do you know you don’t like it?” Scott asked. “You haven’t looked around or gotten to know the place. It may be a little different but maybe you will like it more if you looked around.”

Isaac shrugged.

“Come on,” Scott encouraged. “We’re not going to sleep any time soon so why don’t we go for a little walk?”

Isaac nodded and rose from the bed. He waited by the door for Scott to pull a clean shirt on – one that the people of District Thirteen had offered them along with the drab grey jumpsuits that were mandatory in the bunkers.

Scott slung his arm around Isaac’s slender shoulders and led him out into the hallway.

District Thirteen was just as dull and grey as the jumpsuits that were mandatory dress code for everyone in the bunker. They were currently on the thirty-second floor of the subterranean bunker and each floor had a designated area: dorms, storage, medical bay, food hall, security offices, indoor farms and many more. The top few levels were reserved and used as a hangar bay and munitions storage.

There were box-like speaker systems on every wall that would buzz every hour on the hour as a way to test the system was working. The residents of the bunker had long since blocked out the sound, but it was going to take a long time for Scott to get used to it. It was an infuriating sound that would make Scott panic when it caught him off guard; the static hum sounded eerily similar to the chittering wings of a tracker jacker.

As they walked, Scott began to teach Isaac the numbers he needed to remember: the floor their room was on, the number of their room and John and Chris’ room, the floor with the medical bay on it and the number of Melissa’s dorm next to the medical bay. He taught him how to find the dining hall and where to go if he got lost or needed help.

They walked about for about half an hour before Isaac began to settle.

“I still don’t like it,” Isaac mumbled. “There’s no meadow.”

“Maybe if we’re really good they’ll let us go to the surface and play in the fields or in the woods,” Scott said cheerily.

Isaac pulled up to a halt and bowed his head. He sniffed back his tears and wiped at his face with the sleeve of his jumpsuit.

“Hey,” Scott whispered, craning his neck to look Isaac in the eye. “What’s wrong?”

“Stiles won’t know where we are,” Isaac cried.

Scott felt his heart sink into his gut.

He didn’t know how to reply to that.

“We’ll see Stiles again,” Scott said softly. “I promise. Even if I have to go to the Capitol myself and get him.”

Isaac looked up at him, his ark sapphire eyes full of tears.

“I promise,” Scott repeated.

Isaac bowed his head again.

Scott straightened his back. “Let’s head back, shall we?”

Isaac nodded.

Scott turned but paused.

His eyes fell upon the symbol he has seen throughout the forest – the spiral that was engraved into the trunks of the trees – but this one was smooth and engraved into the metal sheet above the security door.

“What are you two doing up?” a voice asked, startling them.

Scott spun around and met the cold glare of Araya Calavera.

“Sorry,” Scott replied. “We couldn’t sleep so we were walking around to familiarise ourselves with our surroundings.”

Araya nodded.

“What do those markings mean?” Scott asked, pointing at the spiral. “We’ve seen them around the bunkers and throughout the woods. In fact, that’s how we found Thirteen: Chris thought they might be a hunting trail so people didn’t get lost, so we followed the carvings to the edge of Thirteen.”

“You’re smart to have figured that out,” Araya complimented. “The locals around here call it the revenge spiral. Deucalion started it by carving it into the Justice Building of District Thirteen, vowing to get revenge on us for rebelling against the Capitol. Days later, he bombed us. Now Thirteen uses it as a symbol: a promise that we’ll one day get out revenge on Deucalion for what he has done to us, to our families and our District.”

“You’re not the only District he’s harmed,” Scott muttered. “All the Districts suffer under his wrath.”

“That is why we ready ourselves for the rebellion,” Araya explained. “We fight for liberation and peace.”

“But everyone thinks you’re dead,” Isaac muttered. “How can you fight if no-one knows you exist?”

“The fire of our rebellion may have died after the Dark Days, but we haven’t given up. We still have a fight left in us. That’s why we’re joining a different rebellion: Stiles’ rebellion.”

“Stiles isn’t rebelling,” Scott corrected her. “Everyone’s rebelling in his name.”

“It doesn’t matter, what matters is no-one has forgotten him. And bombing District Twelve or throwing him in another arena won’t change that: if he dies, he’ll be a martyr. And no-one, not even Deucalion, can break the hope he has given the people.”

“It’s that hope that has gotten people killed,” Scott muttered. “People whose deaths weigh heavily on Stiles’ soul.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” Araya said softly.

“Stiles is a good man, one who has given hope to many people,” Scott explained. “And that hope drove them to fight back against the Capitol, and because of their bravery – because of that hope – they died. So, if you want Stiles to join your rebellion, you’re going to have to find a way to show him that the people who have died, died _for_ him and not _because_ of him.”

Scott pointed at the revenge spiral engraved in the wall.

“And that symbol won’t be enough,” Scott added. “Stiles doesn’t fight for revenge, he fights for love: for his family.”

Isaac toddled over to the metal door. He drew in a deep breath and blew on the cold metal, steaming the surface. He moved his hand quickly and drew three spirals on the fogged steel plate. He stepped back and looked proudly at the triskelion he had drawn.

“That’s for Stiles and Derek,” Isaac announced before turning and walking back down the hallway.


	18. Chapter 18

The boys made their way out of their bedroom, dressed in the regulated, dull grey jumpsuits. They made their way upstairs to the dining hall.

Isaac stayed close to Scott, holding onto a small patch of fabric as if he were scared that Scott would disappear if he didn’t hold on. The younger boy stood in Scott’s shadow, following his every movement as they lined up for breakfast.

The boys were handed steel trays and Isaac took his reluctantly.

Scott sighed and held onto his tray with one hand, steadying the other on the younger boy’s back to guide him.

They were served their food and made their way through the tables until they found Melissa, Chris and John.

“How are you two doing?” Melissa asked, pressing a soft kiss to Isaac’s temple as Scott guided him to sit between Melissa and himself.

“I don’t like it here,” Isaac admitted.

“What’s wrong with this place?” Melissa questioned kept her voice soft and calm, although Scott could tell she agreed with the boy.

“It’s not home,” Isaac whined.

“It’ll take time to adjust,” Chris pointed out. “But we’re just going to have to make the most of it while we get used to this place.”

“I still don’t like it,” Isaac mumbled. ““There’s no meadow, they won’t let me wear my favourite cardigan and the food is really yucky.”

Scott looked down at the tray full sloppy food and bitter peas. Even District Twelve had better food than this, but he was hungry enough to eat it.

“Scott,” John said softly.

Scott lifted his head and looked at him. “Hmm?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Scott muttered, shovelling another mouthful of slop into his mouth. He winced as he swallowed hard. “I never thought I’d say this but I miss Peter and his cooking.”

The others couldn’t help but laugh.

They fell quiet though as the television screens in the hall blinked on.

Familiar faces were spread across the screen closest to them.

“That’s… That’s the broadcast,” Chris muttered. “It’s the Games.”

“The Capitol broadcasts to the whole of Beacon Hills – Thirteen included – but because it’s mandatory viewing, they don’t look to see who’s watching,” one of the civilians on the next table explained.

“It’s Stiles,” Isaac said excitedly.

“Oh thank God,” Melissa sighed. “He’s alive.”

Scott didn’t hear anything else, he was too focused on the broadcast.

“I never got to thank you,” Geyer said.

“For what?” Stiles muttered, nibbing at a piece of fruit.

“For Liam,” Geyer replied. “He wasn’t my biological child, but he was my son.”

Scott instinctively looked across the table at John. He sighed and bowed his head for a second before looking back up at the television.

Geyer continued, “And what you did for him and the other tributes was admirable. You brought them honour in their deaths and you brought their families peace and resolution. Hell, even I caved to the Capitol and read the speeches that made me sound like a soulless puppet who revelled in a victory I didn’t want. You’re a good man, better than most. You’re a hero.”

Stiles bowed his head. “It doesn’t come without consequences. Deucalion has ordered for others to be killed because of me and he has put my family and everyone I love in harm’s way. He thinks I’m a threat and the revolution that I’m inspiring could overthrow the Capitol. That’s why he organised these Games; he wanted the Careers to kill me and the rest of the victors to be annihilated so that no-one could start another revolution.” He drew in a deep breath. “I’m not a hero. It’s my fault you’re all in here, it’s my fault you’re all dying.”

“No, it’s Deucalion’s fault,” Geyer corrected.

The cafeteria filled with loud cheers as the people of District Thirteen chanted their rebellious slogans.

Isaac cupped his hands over his ears, curling up in a ball as he tried to block out the noise that scared him.

Melissa held the boy close, whispering sweet nothings to him soothingly.

The noise began to die down.

“I also owe you an apology,” Geyer said, his voice audible once more. “I thought it was all an act. I thought your relationship with Derek was nothing more than a media stunt. It wasn’t until he hit that barrier and his heart stopped that I realised you weren’t pretending. You really do love him, and he loves you. I have never seen someone as distraught as he was when that barrier went up and he had to watch on helplessly as you were attacked by jabberjays. So, I’m sorry I misjudged you. You’re a good man and you deserve a better life.”

Stiles blinked back heavy tears.

“There is no life for me outside this arena, not anymore,” he whimpered.

Scott felt his heart ache.

“Ever since the Games, Deucalion has had his eyes on me,” Stiles explained. “There are cameras everywhere and everyone wants to know about the victors of the seventy-fifth Games. It’s a gaping wound that’s constantly reopened. And my family – those I love – are constantly under threat.”

“I’m not going to lie, it’s hard,” Geyer admitted. “But it does get easier with time.”

“It won’t for me,” Stiles whispered. “Everyone sees me as some figure for a revolution. I can’t stop them and I can’t help them either… I don’t know what to do.”

“What you need to do is get out of this alive,” Geyer instructed.

“How do we do that?” Stiles asked.

“Fight.”

Stiles turned to look at Geyer.

The man flinched as something hit his throat.

Isaac yelped and buried his face in Melissa’s jumpsuit.

She tried to calm him, but held him close enough that she sheltered him from what happened next.

Scott watched as Geyer plucked a small dart from the taut skin of his neck. It fell from his fingers as he leapt to his feet and grabbed his trident in a flurry of movement. He blocked the incoming attack of one of the Careers: the boy from District Three, Sean.

He exchanged blows and fought back against the attacker.

“Stiles!” he shouted over his shoulder. Beads of sweat gathered on his brow and his dark eyes became unfocused. He gritted his teeth and fought back. “Get the others and run.”

Stiles panicked for a second.

“It’s poison,” Chris announced. “And it’s already taking effect; his movements are slowed, he’s sweating heavily, his vision is blurred and his breathing is laboured.”

Geyer’s dodges and blows were sloppy, but he somehow managed to land a few on Sean.

Stiles turned and picked up his heels, sprinting across the beach to grab Derek and Hayden.

“We have to go,” he called to them. “Now!”

Derek grabbed the backpack and his axe.

Mason helped Corey to his feet and turned to run.

There was a heavy thud behind them and the gut wrenching sound of breaking bones as a cannon fired overhead.

The camera panned out just in time to see Geyer’s lifeless body drop to the ground.

Hayden turned around, her eyes wide with fear.

“Geyer!” she cried, running over to the man’s limp body.

“Hayden, wait!” Stiles called, reaching out to stop her.

She dodged his grasp and sprinted past him.

“Hayden!” Derek howled.

Hayden screamed and charged at the Career.

Sean let out a low growl. He snarled like an animal, exposing his unhuman cluster of shark-like teeth.

Hayden lunged at him.

He caught a hold of the girl’s wrists and pulled her close. He sank his teeth into her throat and tore out her jugular.

Blood gushed from her wound, spilling over the sand.

Stiles and Derek ran to her side.

Derek grabbed Sean’s shoulders and hurled him away from Hayden.

Stiles hurried to the girl’s side and caught her limp body before she hit the ground. He pressed his hand to her gaping throat, holding her close as she rasped and gargled on her weak breaths.

Sean knocked Derek’s axe from his hand.

“Derek,” Stiles cried, panicked.

Derek’s cold glare was focused on Sean, his primal instincts and years of training as a Career began to kick in. He clenched his fist and slammed it into the teen’s jaw, knocking him off balance. He thumped Sean in the jugular, his rigid knuckles shattering bones and leaving the teen breathless. Derek leapt aside and quickly pulled the teen into a headlock. He grabbed Sean’s chin and jerked it aside.

A loud crack echoed about the open space as Sean fell still in Derek’s arms.

Derek released him, letting the teen fall to the ground as a second cannon fired overhead.

“Holy shit,” Scott gasped.

“He’s a Career,” Chris reminded him. “It’s what he was trained for.”

“Still…” Scott muttered, watching Derek’s cold composure as his broad shoulders heaved up and down with rugged breaths.

The arena fell silent.

Stiles lifted Hayden into his arms and waded into the shallows of the water. He laid her body across the rippling surface and held her afloat.

The water lapped at her body, washing away the blood that coated her skin.

Streams of red began to diffuse into the water.

Her body wavered and shuddered. Tears fell from her eyes.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” Stiles whispered.

Her dark eyes drifted away from his, looking up at the thin wisps of clouds that drifted across the skies.

Stiles looked up, watching the sky shift between shades of pastel blue and deep sapphire.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Stiles whispered.

Scott could see the pain in the boy’s eyes and he knew he was fighting back tears.

“It’s like an ocean in the sky and the clouds are like sheets of ice that hold it all above us.”

Hayden seemed mesmerised by the boy’s rambling words.

“It’s so fragile. And I swear, one day the heavens are going to get too heavy with all of the innocent people who are up there: Liam, Geyer, Allison, and everyone one else. One day, the sky’s going to fall down around us.”

Hayden’s breathing was shallow as frail wisps of air fell past her trembling lips. Her body fell still, her eyes drifting shut as her limp limbs floated on the surface of the water.

Another thundering boom cracked the air, shaking the tears free of Stiles’ eyes. He cradled Hayden’s cold body against his chest and cried until he had no more tears left in him to give.

Scott felt his heart ache as he watched Stiles slowly let go of Hayden and left her frail body to drift across the surface of the water.

Derek stepped forward, and tried to gently encourage Stiles out of the shallows.

Stiles stood on the edge of the water, the cool waves lapping at the toes of his boots as he stared across the shimmering edge of the sapphire pool. He stayed there, staring into oblivion.

“It’s okay,” Derek whispered.

“No,” Stiles rasped. “No, it’s not.”

“There was nothing you could do,” Derek assured him, keeping his voice low and soft.

“There was,” Stiles muttered. “I could have stopped all of this if I had just died… I should have just killed myself.”

Scott felt sick to his stomach.

He looked up at John. He could see the man’s heart breaking his glistening blue eyes darkening as he watched on, hollow and broken.

Derek shoved Stiles into the water.

The boy stumbled and fell to the shallows. He pushed himself onto his knees, gasping for air and turning back with a mix of rage and confusion in his eyes.

Derek met his gaze with a cold glare.

“Derek, what the hell?” Mason yelped, rushing to their side.

“You awake yet, or should I dunk you in the water again?” Derek growled.

Stiles rose to his feet, limping slightly as he waded out of the water.

“You want to die, go ahead,” Derek said bluntly. “There’s a whole pool of water to drown yourself in. Or you could make it quick and use your knife.”

Scott was going to be sick. He wanted to scream and throw things around like the child he was. He wanted to find Stiles and shout at him. He wanted to hit Derek for suggesting such a thing. But, instead, he had to sit there and watch on helplessly.

“Or maybe you want to go for a nice little stroll through the arena until you find a Career and then you can ask them to kill you. And when you reach whatever afterlife there is, you can explain to Allison and Paige, and Deaton, Brett and Lori, your mum, Geyer and everyone else there why you let them down. You can tell them all that their sacrifices were in vain and their deaths meant nothing. Then, after some time, you can explain to your dad, Scott, Isaac, Laura and everyone else why you gave up on them.”

“I haven’t given up on them!” Stiles retorted.

“Really? Because I don’t see you fighting for them.”

Derek took a step forward and lowered his voice.

“None of this is your fault,” he said, annunciating every word. “You volunteered for Scott, yes, but you didn’t pick his name or start the Hunger Games. Allison died protecting you and that’s not your fault; you didn’t kill her or anyone else that you blame yourself for. And you didn’t put us in this goddamn arena, Deucalion did. So wake up, Stiles! You need to remember who’s to blame here, and it’s not you.”

Derek took another step forward.

“And remember the promise I made you?” Derek held up his hand, showing Stiles the gleaming silver band that was coiled around his finger. “Till death do us part.”

Stiles drew in a deep breath and looked up at Derek. He couldn’t hold his gaze, feeling guilty about everything he had said.

“I promised I’d stand by you until the end and I will,” Derek whispered. “And if you die, I will follow you.”

Stiles shook his head, tears burning at his eyes and falling down his cheeks. He rested his head against Derek’s chest and sobbed.

Derek wound his arms around Stiles and held him close. He cupped the back of the boy’s head and pressed a tender kiss to the crown of his head.

“I can’t lose you too,” Stiles sobbed. “Please, I can’t lose you too.”

Everything was interrupted when someone announced the arrival of an air craft. Many people leapt to their feet and hurried up to the hangar to welcome the new arrival.

 

Scott was walking down the hall, returning to his quarters when he heard his father’s voice.

“It’s a door, Lydia,” Rafe said. “It opens and closes from both sides.”

“Really? I never knew that doors could do that,” Lydia drawled sarcastically. She lowered her voice, more serious as she added, “What difference does it make anyway? Why would I want to leave my little jail cell only to wander about a larger one?”

Rafe sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You’re not a captive, Lydia.”

Lydia smiled cynically. “You could have fooled me. Now, if you would, the door’s behind you. And as you’ve pointed out: it closes from both sides.”

She swiftly turned around, bringing their conversation to an abrupt end.

Scott made his way over to her quarters, ignoring his father as he opened the door, stepped inside and closed it in Rafael’s face.

“For God sake, leave me alone,” Lydia growled.

“Okay, I’ll leave.”

“Scott?” Lydia spun around and grabbed his arm, gently pulling him away from the door. “No, no, no. You can stay.”

“Are you already picking fights?” Scott teased.

“Only with that jackass,” Lydia replied. “Don’t know what it is but there’s something about his face that makes me want to punch him.”

“John already beat you to it,” Scott told her.

“John hit someone?” Lydia squawked, shocked.

“Yeah.”

“What did the jackass do?” Lydia asked, intrigued.

“He… uh… He’s my dad,” Scott said.

“Your dad? But I thought your dad was…”

“Dead?” Scott finished. “Yeah, we thought so too. That’s why John hit him.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to call him a jackass,” Lydia apologised.

Scott smiled sweetly at her. “Don’t be; that’s the mildest thing we’ve called him so far.”

“So, your dad is alive? That must be some relief?” Lydia prompted.

“Not really,” Scott admitted. “I mean, he stopped being my dad when he left and made us think he was dead. He’s always be my father – that’s just genetics – but it takes commitment and love to be a dad. John’s my dad. Chris is my dad. Rafe is just some guy who had a kid with my mother and then abandoned us.”

“I’m sorry,” Lydia whispered. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” Scott assured her. “How did you get here?”

“Ground troops kidnapped me, dragged me beyond the Districts and then flew me here,” Lydia said, her voice laced with discontent.

“Did Peter come with you?” Scott asked.

“He’s the one that planned it,” she growled. “He’s been dipping his thumbs in all the pies. He planned the alliances for Stiles, he planned their escape form the arena, and he planned for the two of us to be smuggled out to this hole.”

“Wait… ‘Escape’? But they’re still trapped in the arena,” Scott pointed out.

“I know, but apparently they have something planned,” Lydia explained. “At least they did until things went wrong. Paige, Geyer, Marie-Jeanne, Noshiko and Satomi. They weren’t meant to die. And the Desert Wolf was meant to be helping them, not hunting them. I don’t know exactly what they had planned; Peter was about to tell me when those ruffians grabbed us.”

“At least you’re here now,” Scott said quietly, looking at her with kind eyes. “You’re safe and you’re unharmed.”

“You know, if they had explained what was happening and asked nicely, I would have gone without a fuss,” Lydia said solemnly before proudly adding, “But they didn’t, and now one of them has a broken nose, another has a black eye and I’m pretty sure I broke some of Peter’s ribs too.”

Scott couldn’t help but laugh.

There was a quiet knock at the door.

“What?!” Lydia yelled.

The door opened slightly, revealing the face of a young woman.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” a citizen of Thirteen said quietly. “It’s your friend…”

“Isaac?” Scott asked.

The young woman nodded. “He’s in the air vents and he won’t come out.”

Scott felt his heart pound against his chest.

He and Lydia sprinted out of the room, following the young woman to a small grate in the wall.

Beyond the grate, they could hear the echo of the boy’s quiet sobs.

“Isaac?” Scott called.

“Go away!” the boy shouted.

“Come on, Isaac,” Scott encouraged. “What’s wrong?”

“I want Stiles!”

“Okay, if you come out we’ll go and watch the broadcast,” Scott bargained.

“No, I want Stiles!” the boy screamed.

“Isaac, sweetie,” Lydia said softly. “Why don’t you come out? You have to be a good boy if you want Stiles to come home, and I don’t think Stiles would approve of you sitting in such a dangerous spot.”

“I want Stiles,” Isaac sobbed, peering around the corner and into the main shaft.

“So do I, darling,” Lydia whispered. “Come on.”

Isaac hesitated.

“Come on,” Lydia encouraged. “We’ll go watch Stiles on the TV, yeah?”

Isaac nodded and began to crawl back down the main shaft on his hands and knees.

Scott helped him climb out of the vent and stand up on his feet.

Lydia took his hand and led him towards the cafeteria hall. She sat down at one of the benches with Isaac and Scott.

Isaac perched his head on his hands and stared up at the television screens, intently focused on the broadcast.

The cameras were split across the arena, each focusing on different tributes.

They focused on the small screen with Stiles and Derek in it.

Derek busied himself by filling their bottles with water and carried all of their supplies into the cornucopia.

Mason and Corey settled down in the shadows and curled up in each other’s arms to sleep. Mason had nestled his back against Corey and held onto the hand that was coiled around his waist, holding him close in the comfort and security of Corey’s arms.

Occasionally, Mason would let out a whimper, only to have Corey pull him closer into his warmth or shuffle forward and snuggle closer to the boy.

Derek found a torn up sleeping bag among the scavenged ruins of the cornucopia and laid it down across a smooth section of the rocky platform.

Stiles sat on the edge of the platform, his feet dangling into the water. The scintillating pool glistened in the moonlight.

Derek sighed at the sight of the boy and made his way over to Stiles. He sat down next to the boy and waited.

The Gamemakers chose to focus on that particular camera, blowing it up to the size of the full screen while the other cameras remained small.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered. “I love you.”

Derek slung his arm around the boy’s shoulders and held him close. He nuzzled his face into the crown of the boy’s head.

“You’re not the only one who feels like they’ve failed others,” Derek whispered. “I live every day with what happened to my mum and my sisters. After all of that, I shied away from people because I was scared I was going to hurt them. Then you and Allison came into my life and you brought me out of the shadows. Maybe if I hadn’t been hit by the paralysis dart or if I had fought off Ennis sooner, Allison wouldn’t have died.”

“No,” Stiles muttered, shaking his head. “Don’t do this to yourself. You’re not to blame.”

“And you aren’t either,” Derek repeated. “My point is, it’s survivor’s guilt. We blame ourselves because we felt helpless, both then and now.”

“I don’t want to feel helpless,” Stiles said quietly.

“Then fight this with me,” Derek whispered. He pulled the ring from his finger and slid it onto Stiles’ slender finger. “Till death do us part.”

“Stiles and Derek are getting married,” Isaac whispered to Lydia.

She played along with him, acting surprised despite already knowing the news. “They are?”

Isaac smiled brightly and nodded.

Their moment was interrupted as the side of the screen lit up with the bright symbol of the Capitol and the anthem began to play. It faded away for a second and was replaced by the unhuman portrait of District Three’s Sean. After a moment, the image faded. The screen then lit up with the bold portraits of District Four’s tributes: Geyer and Hayden.

Scott let out a heavy sigh.

 _They were good people who deserved better_ , he thought to himself.

The music slowly faded and the darkness returned.

Stiles looked up at Derek, sliding his hand into the older boy’s.

Derek looked down at him, his aventurine eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

Stiles voice was quiet but strong as he said, “No-one one else dies. I’m going to fight.”


	19. Chapter 19

There was no sunrise in Thirteen, only the sound of the speakers buzzing and then the wakeup call for the civilians. It was routine for the people of District Thirteen: wake up, dress in the grey jumpsuits that lacked any individuality, and go about their assigned duties at their designated times.

Scott had been assigned to help his mother in the medical bay, but his position wasn’t confirmed so he could spend the days wondering about the bunker, looking after Isaac, sitting with Lydia or maybe hunting when he was finally given permission to return to the surface. So Scott often spent his time in Lydia’s room, where she and Isaac would hide away from the others.

There was a quiet knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Lydia called.

“Melissa.”

Isaac leapt off Lydia’s bunk and ran to open the door. He welcomed Melissa into the room.

Melissa smiled and thanked him before passing a stack of fabric to Lydia.

“They wouldn’t let me change the fabric or add anything colourful,” Melissa explained. “But I figured we could push the rules a little so you’re more comfortable.”

“Thank you.” Lydia smiled sweetly and took the bundle of fabric from Melissa. She held it up before her and gasped when she realised what Melissa was talking about.

Melissa had unpicked the stitching and restitched the jumpsuit into a pretty grey dress. It was simple but elegant. The hung down to a modest length and was shaped to fit her slender figure. The scooped neck was designed to cover her collarbones and the dress was fitted with open sleeves that billowed slightly – designed for comfort.

“It’s nothing elegant and I couldn’t add any gems or decorations to it,” Melissa said apologetically.

“It’s perfect,” Lydia whispered. She rose from her bunk and rushed to Melissa’s side, pulling the woman into a tight hug. “Thank you.”

Lydia spun around gracefully and looked at the boys. “I need to get changed, so you two have to leave.”

Isaac looked upset.

“Come on, Isaac,” Scott encouraged. “We’ll go have some breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” the boy whined.

“You need to eat, sweetie,” Melissa said softly. She held out her hand for the boy. “Come on.”

Isaac sighed heavily and rose from the bunk. He took a hold of Melissa’s hand and let her lead him out of the bedroom and up two floors to the dining hall.

Scott followed but paused in the doorway. He turned back to look at Lydia.

“I’ll be right with you,” she assured him before he asked.

Scott nodded and shut the door behind himself before following Isaac and his mum upstairs.

“Scott,” a familiar voice called.

Scott drew in a deep breath and continued to walk.

“Scott,” his father called again. “Scott.”

The man leapt in front of him and blocked his path.

“Do not ignore me,” Rafe scolded.

“I’m not ignoring you,” Scott replied coldly. “I just choose not to acknowledge your existence. You are, after all, dead.”

“Don’t give me lip, young man,” Rafe growled. “I knew that if you stayed near Stiles long enough you’d pick up his attitude problems.”

“Don’t you dare bring Stiles into this,” Scott hissed. “You have no idea what we’ve been through. You have no idea what you threw us into. Stiles was there when I needed him. He was there when you weren’t. Stiles and John have been more of a family to me than you ever were.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, Scott. I’m your dad, goddamn it!”

“You are not my dad! You are a coward!” Scott retorted. “You left us alone to struggle for all these years and then, out of the blue, we find out you’re alive and you expect us to thank you. You have done nothing to help us. The two people who need your help are trapped in that goddamn arena and you aren’t lifting a finger to help them.”

Rafe stared at the boy, stunned.

“But I guess I should thank you,” Scott continued. “If you hadn’t left, I couldn’t have known how much better my life could be without you.”

Scott stepped around him and stormed into the dining room, shoving Rafe’s arm as he walked by. He made his way across the hall and sat next to his mum.

The broadcast was on.

The cameras were focused on the cluster of tributes that were gathered on the beach. Stiles and Derek were rushing across the sandy beach towards Marin, leaving Mason and Corey behind them.

“It’s not my blood,” Scott heard Marin mutter, wiping the layer of thick ooze from her face.

“What happened?” Stiles asked.

“I went to find your friends and when I did we spent the past two days walking about without water or food. So when it started raining, we opened our mouths and lifted out heads to the sky. And only when I swallowed a mouthful of said ‘rain’ did I realise it tasted like blood: thick, bitter and copper.”

“Where are the others?” Derek asked.

Marin pointed to the tree line.

The Mute emerged from the shadows, supporting Meredith as she stumbled about on her frail legs, mumbling something over and over again.

Isaac whimpered – scared by the menacing tribute – and huddled closer to Melissa.

Melissa held him close and whispered reassuringly to him.

Scott couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

“Is everyone okay?” Derek asked.

“Yeah,” Marin replied. “Just so you know, one doesn’t talk and the other won’t stop talking.”

“Tick, tock,” Meredith whispered, her bright eyes looking about the open space. “Tick, tock.”

Marin drew in a deep breath and added, “And nothing she says makes sense.”

“Okay, okay,” Stiles said softly.

Scott couldn’t help but smile, recognising the familiar tone that Stiles would use on Isaac and Laura.

Stiles looked up at the Mute and signed the words he spoke. “Why don’t we wash off the blood and then you can have some fresh water and fruit?”

The Mute nodded, helping Stiles guide Meredith into the shallows.

“Tick tock,” the girl muttered, swinging her arms about in the water like a child. She liked down at the spirals of blood that pooled around her as it was washed away from her pale skin. “Tick tock.”

“Yeah,” Stiles cooed like a mother encouraging a babbling baby. “Tick tock.”

Meredith relaxed in his arms, letting him lay her back and wash the blood from her short, permed hair. She sat upright again and splashed her face with water, clearing away the crimson smears.

The Mute sat in the soggy sand beside them, reluctant to leave Meredith’s side. The intimidating man was cleaning himself and the gleaming silver blade of his axe.

Corey and Mason were waiting on the shore with bottles of water and fruit for the newcomers to eat when they were clean.

“Tick tock,”Meredith repeated. “Tick tock.”

“Okay, Meredith,” Stiles said softly. “Let’s get back up on the beach, yeah?”

The girl nodded and waded ashore.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked the Mute, signing his words as he spoke.

The man nodded.

“Okay, I’ll just be up there with Meredith. When you’re done, come and have something to eat.”

The man nodded again.

Stiles turned and made his way ashore.

Meredith was crouched on the beach and drawing in the sand.

The camera focused on her scrawls.

She dragged her finger through the coarse sand in a circle before drawing lines through it. Between each line she put two dots and in the centre, where the lines intersected, she drew a large, askew shape. At the top of the circle she drew a jagged line, a lightning bolt.

Stiles crouched down beside her, looking at her drawing.

She turned her eyes to him. “Tick tock. Tick tock.”

“A clock?” he asked quietly.

Meredith nodded. She pointed from her drawing to the cornucopia and repeated, “Tick tock.”

“Meredith, you’re brilliant.”

Stiles rose to his feet and looked around.

Meredith staggered slightly as she lifted her weight onto her frail legs. She sprinted across the rocky paths towards the cornucopia.

Stiles followed her.

She pointed at the large tree in the distance of the northern horizon. “Tick tock.”

Heavy footsteps trailed behind them as the others caught up.

“What’s going on?” Derek asked.

“It’s a clock,” Stiles gasped. “The arena is a clock.”

“Tick tock,” Meredith repeated, confirming what the boy had said.

Derek’s brow furrowed with confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Tick tock,” Meredith whispered, seemingly frustrated that no-one else understood them.

“Twelve paths, twelve hours,” Stiles tried to explain. “That’s why they put the barriers up; every section is divided into an hour’s worth of torture: poison fog, jabberjays, mutated creatures, blood rain, fire, and whatever else the Gamemakers’ sick minds could come up with.”

Derek nodded and seemed to follow the boy’s logic.

Stiles pointed at the large tree uphill and said, “At twelve o’clock, every day and night, lightning strikes that tree twelve times like the chiming of an old clock.”

Stiles paused.

It was quiet.

“Meredith?”

Stiles turned around.

The camera zoomed out.

The girl stared at him, eyes wide with shock as an arrowhead pierced her chest. Her body weakened. Her legs wavered beneath her and she fell back into the water.

“Meredith!” Stiles cried out, diving in after her.

The water crashed around him, foaming as it consumed him.

Scott reached for his mum’s hand. Melissa took it, using her free arm to hold Isaac close.

Derek raced to the edge of the cornucopia, looking into the water for Stiles while Marin and the Mute braced themselves to fight.

Scott’s heart pounded against his chest.

Stiles burst into the open, gasping for air as he dragged Meredith into the open air. He waded into the shallows.

Derek, Marin and the Mute tore off into the trees after the attacker.

Meredith was sobbing in Stiles’ arms.

He pulled her into his lap, gently shushing her as he caressed her cheek softly.

“Tick tock,” she gasped, her trembling lips splattered with blood as her breathing became shallow and weak.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered. “You did it. You worked it out.”

Tears began to well in her eyes.

“Shh,” Stiles said softly. “It’s alright.”

He had to think quickly.

His throat was dry as he began to hum the familiar tune of a nursery rhyme.

The melody was slower than normal, meant to calm rather than entertain, but it seemed rather sad and haunting. Especially when Isaac began to sing along to it.

The younger boy nuzzled his face into Melissa’s shoulder and began to mumble,

 

_Hickory dickory dock,_

_the mouse ran up the clock._

_The clock struck one._

_The mouse ran down._

_Hickory dickory dock._

 

Scott watched on, his heart breaking as Meredith began to settle and relax in Stiles’ arms. Her shallow breathing evened out as the soft melody began to calm her. Her eyes fluttered shut, a small smile lifting the corners of her lips. She looked as if she were just falling asleep in his arms.

At least it did until the thundering boom of a cannon fired, quickly followed by a second.

Scott sniffed back his tears, leaning forward on the table and buried his face in his hands.

“Hey,” Melissa whispered softly, reaching forward to rest her hand on Scott’s shoulder. “They’re okay. Stiles and Derek are fine.”

Scott pulled away from her, slamming his hands down on the table and rising to his feet.

He stormed out of the dining hall and raced down the staircase to their bedroom.

 

There was a quiet knock at the door.

Scott remained silent.

“Scott,” Lydia called, opening the door slightly. “Are you okay?”

Scott didn’t reply.

He was lying on his side with his arms crossed and his dark eyes focused on the pale metal plating of his bedroom wall.

“What’s wrong?” Lydia asked, sitting down on the edge of the boy’s mattress.

“Everything,” Scott muttered. “But right now I’m just trying to stop myself from murdering Rafe.”

“What did he do this time?”

“He won’t save Stiles,” Scott answered. “He’s acting like Stiles was some kind of negative influence on me. I don’t think he realises how much Stiles has done for us. I mean, he’s saved my life so many times and he has gone out of his way to get food and resources that have kept us all alive. He’d always give his food to Isaac or me whenever we didn’t have enough to go around. He volunteered for me. He went into that goddamn arena because of me.”

“Rafe hasn’t seen what happened after he left,” Lydia whispered. “He hasn’t seen the family you’ve created. He doesn’t understand that you two have become brothers.”

“It’s just so infuriating. He keeps acting like he’s this brave hero that has righted all the wrongs he’s done, but the one thing he need to do to redeem himself, he won’t.”

“Stiles and Derek will be okay. They’ll survive this,” Lydia said reassuringly.

“It’s not about the Games, Lydia. If they survive, then what? They can’t go back to Twelve and Deucalion will find a reason to have them executed or brainwashed for propaganda against the rebellion. If they survive the Games, then they don’t stand a chance. We’re the only people that can save them, but to do that we have to get them out of that arena and Rafe isn’t willing to help.”

“We’ll find a way,” Lydia whispered.

“I’ll storm the Capitol myself if I have to,” Scott growled. He rolled onto his back and glared at her. “I’m not letting Stiles die because of me.”

Lydia looked stunned. “None of this is your fault, Scott.”

“Yes, it is,” the boy argued. “All of this happened because he volunteered for me.”

“Scott,” Lydia said softly. “It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s mine. I read your name out.”

“No,” Scott muttered. “You were doing your job.”

“And Stiles did his,” Lydia countered. “All Stiles ever does is protect his family.”

Scott bowed his head, ashamed.

“I just want my brother,” he muttered weakly.

“We’ll get him back,” Lydia promised.

 

Scott drew in a deep breath and tried to compose himself. His broad shoulders rose and fell as his head spun with thoughts.

 _I have to do this_ , Scott told himself.

He pressed his hand up against the door and pulled it open, stepping into the operations room of District Thirteen.

All eyes turned on him as he stepped into the room.

“Scott,” his father said, shocked. “What are you doing here?”

Scott swallowed hard. He mustered up as much confidence as he had and boldly announced, “I put forward the motion to save Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale and the allied tributes.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Rafael asked.

“Stiles is smart,” Scott answered. “He always comes up with the plans. He’ll find a way to survive until the end of the Games or he’ll figure a way out of that arena, but we need to move soon if we’re going to get him and the others out of the Capitol.”

“Why should we risk our men and our resources?” Rafe inquired.

“Because Stiles is the key to this rebellion and if you want the other Districts on your side then you’ll need him. If you don’t get him out then the Capitol will kill him, you will lose your chance at rebelling against Deucalion and your own people will turn against you. You want an uproar? If you leave Stiles to die, you’ll witness one. The people of District Twelve will not sit by and idly watch you passively kill the boy that has done nothing but selflessly sacrifice everything for others.”

“Is that a threat?” Rafe said defensively.

“It’s a promise,” Scott answered defiantly. He focused his cold glare on Rafe. “Let me reiterate what I have said: you will save Stiles or you will regret it.”

“If we can hijack the broadcast feed, we might be able to black out their power systems,” a young woman informed Rafael. “Defences and security systems will be down for ten minutes while they get their backup generators started, but we only get one chance at this. They’ll upgrade their security systems and we won’t be able to get to them again.”

Rafe thought about it for a moment before letting out a heavy sigh. “If we get Stiles out we won’t need to go back; we’ll have the key to the rebellion.”

Scott felt a rush of relief flood his veins.

Rafael turned to look at him.

“I will supply you with an aircraft, a pilot, an armed guard and medical supplies,” he announced. “It is up to you to decide who you take but I would suggest taking someone who’s familiar with Capitol and the arenas and someone who is capable of fighting and subduing the tributes if something goes wrong.”

Scott nodded.

“I’ll make sure the ship is stocked, fuelled and ready to go in half an hour,” Rafe told him, rising to his feet and picking up a radio.

“Thank you,” Scott whispered before turning and leaving.

 

John slung an arm around Scott’s shoulders and held him close.

“Thank you,” the man whispered.

“I’m still not talking to him,” Scott muttered.

“You don’t have to,” John assured him. “I don’t expect you to forgive him because he did one thing right. But I’m proud of you for setting everything aside and being the bigger man.”

“I’m doing this for Stiles,” Scott said proudly. “We have ten minutes from when the power goes out to get in there and get out. I still don’t have a plan and I have no idea how we’re going to get them out of there, but I know Stiles will think of something; he always does.”

His eyes drifted to the small screen that was fixed into the wall of the hangar.

The screen lit up with the Capitol emblem, the anthem quietened by the audio system and drowned out by the noise of the bustling hangar.

The first image was the portrait of the tribute from District One, the tribute who had attacked the group earlier that day. Slowly, that portrait faded and was replaced by the stunning image of Meredith.

The cameras zoomed out to focus on Stiles as he rose to his feet, ignoring the rest of the anthem and the presentation as he stalked across the rocky paths and stormed into the cornucopia. He tossed about crates and scattered resources before pulling out a large cylindrical object. He lugged it with him as he made his way back to the beach and hurled it onto the shore. The thick coil of wire landed in the sand with a solid thud, drawing everyone’s attention.

“It looks like Stiles has a plan,” Chris announced, joining Scott and John.

“And so do we,” Peter added, walking past them and onto the ship.

Scott watched as the others looked from Stiles to the coil, their faces twisted and creased in confusion.

“We end this,” Stiles announced. “Tonight.”


	20. Chapter 20

“They’re airborne and should be in the Capitol within the hour,” Rafael announced as he stepped into the medical bay.

Melissa didn’t react. She busied herself with redressing the burns and bleeding gashes of the wounded from District Twelve.

“She’s not talking to you,” Isaac hissed from Melissa’s side. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Rafe.

Melissa and Lydia had to bow their heads to hide their smirks. The young boy wasn’t intimidating or threatening in the least, but it was nice that he tried.

Rafael turned his attention to Isaac. “Then can you please tell her that I’ve confirmed the mission and Scott, John, Chris and Peter are on their way to bring Stiles and the others back.”

“Don’t you dare,” Melissa growled. She rose to her feet and turned on Rafe. “Don’t you dare take credit for this! I, for one, know that you would never raise a finger to help Stiles and the only reason you’re doing this is because Scott asked nicely. Doing one good thing isn’t going to make up for the years of neglect and struggles that you threw us into when you abandoned us.”

“I’m not taking credit, I’m just trying to do something right for once,” Rafe argued. “And this isn’t about you and me, it’s about everyone. Stiles is the key to the rebellion and we need him to free everyone from Deucalion’s oppression.”

“So you’re only saving him so you can use him?” Melissa reiterated. “You are just as manipulative, cold and cruel as Deucalion. And you know what? I’m glad that Scott didn’t turn out like you; he grew up to be a good man. He’d do anything for those he cares about. When there’s no chance of winning, he keeps fighting. When all hope is lost, he finds another way. When he’s beaten down, he stands up again. And he has become a better man than you could ever dream of being. And that’s all because of Stiles; Stiles helped him be a good man and Scott helped Stiles be strong.”

Rafe stared at her, frozen in shock by her sudden outburst and harsh words.

“I agree with Scott when he says we’re better off without you; you leaving us led us to the family we needed, the family we deserved,” Melissa added.

Rafe stood in silence.

“Now, if you don’t mind,” Melissa said, her calm demeanour returning. “I have a lot of patients who need rest.”

“The door’s behind you.” Lydia reiterated, staring at Rafe as if daring him to challenge her.

Rafe nodded and turned. He marched back out the door.

Isaac poked his tongue out at the man as he left and neither Melissa nor Lydia could hold back their laughter.

Lydia looked over at Melissa, watching her dark sienna eyes fill with worry.

“They’ll be okay,” Lydia whispered, reaching across to lay her hand atop of Melissa’s.

Melissa met Lydia’s glistening jade eyes and smiled.

“You’re part of our family too, you know that right?” Melissa rasped.

Lydia smiled. She stepped over to Melissa’s side and wrapped her arms around the slender woman.

Melissa returned the hug, burying her face in the mess of Lydia’s strawberry blonde hair.

Isaac looked up at one of the small screens that broadcasted the Games.

“Isaac,” Ethan called quietly.

The boy turned around and looked across the room for who called his name.

Ethan smiled and patted the mattress next to him.

Isaac hurried over to his side and sat down on the edge of the mattress. He turned his bright blue eyes to the television screen and watched.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Corey said quietly, weaving his way through the greenery after Stiles. “How does this work?”

“Electricity runs along metal, like the District fences,” Stiles explained, holding the coiled wire and slowly unwinding it as they made their way uphill towards the large tree on the horizon. “And when metal meets the barrier it’s enough to break it for a moment like it did when Derek hit it with his axe, only this time instead of being electrocuted-”

Stiles’ voice faltered as the wire snagged on something, pulling him back slightly.

“Corey,” Stiles said quietly, his eyes focused on the shadows among the trees. “Take the coil and keep going.”

Corey exchanged the coil for the Stiles’ spear.

Stiles readied himself for a fight.

“Go,” Stiles whispered.

Corey hurried ahead.

Stiles tightened his grip on his spear.

Isaac swallowed hard, unable to take his eyes off the screen.

Donovan emerged, his face contorted and his mouth twisted into a cynical smile.

Isaac let out a panicked whine.

Ethan sat up on the bed and gently shushed the boy, pulling him into a half-hug and whispering quietly to him.

Melissa and Lydia were by Ethan’s bedside in a second.

Isaac turned and buried his face in Melissa’s jumpsuit.

The woman whispered sweet nothings to him, her eyes focused on the screen as Stiles stared Donovan down.

Donovan lunged forward.

Stiles spun his spear around, smacking the side of the older boy’s face with the side of his pole.

Donovan stumbled slightly by quickly countered Stiles’ attack, holding his daggers like scythes and charging at the boy with a flurry of savage movements.

Stiles spun around, thumping the pole against the older boy’s wrist and disarming him. He stumbled slightly and Stiles swung again, knocking him off his feet and leaving him to tumble down the ridge.

Donovan bounced back quickly, leaping to his feet and chasing after Stiles.

The younger boy leapt up into a nearby tree, scurrying up the rough bark and reaching for the thick bough of a high branch.

Donovan grabbed his ankles, pulling the boy down from the tree.

Melissa gasped and held Isaac closer.

Stiles yelped, thrashing about and kicking at Donovan’s hands but the Career refused to weaken his grip. Stiles’ free hand began to slip. His spear fell from his other hand.

There was a strangled gargle beneath him and then silence.

Lydia cupped her hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying out in surprise.

Stiles’ grip gave way and he fell to the ground. He scurried among the detritus and towards a ridge. He bounced to his feet and turned back, shocked by the sight of the impaled corpse. Donovan’s body was arched back and resting on the spear with his arms hanging weak by his side.

A cannon fired overhead.

“Stiles!” Mason’s screams echoed through the trees. The cameras panned out, changing from views of Stiles’ shocked expression, to the dead body, to Mason as he sprinted over to the older boy’s side.

Stiles froze, his gaze stuck on Donovan’s lifeless corpse.

“Stiles,” Mason said, his voice full of panic as he tugged at Stiles’ hand. “We have to go.”

Stiles turned slowly, letting Mason lead the way up to the meeting point.

There was a gut-wrenching shrill whine of a blade being dragged across wire, making Isaac cringe and cup his hands over his ears to block out the noise. It was followed by a snap as the wire fell limp on the ground.

“What was that?” Mason asked.

“It snapped,” Stiles announced.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mason said, the fear still thick in his voice.

“No, we need it grounded in the water and the wet sand, otherwise we won’t have enough voltage to counter it and it won’t work,” Stiles explained. “If it’s not grounded, it’ll fry us all.”

Mason thought about it quickly. “Alright, I’ll go fix it.”

“I’ll come with you,” Stiles offered.

“No,” Mason yelped. “No offence, but I’m faster and there’s no use in both of us getting caught. I’ll fix it and pluck it twice then make my way back to the meeting point, okay?”

Stiles let out a heavy sigh before he reluctantly agreed, “Fine, but be quick.”

Mason nodded and disappeared into the shadows of the night.

Stiles watched him go before he turned and begun to trudge uphill to the agreed-upon rendezvous point at the foot of the large tree.

He stepped into the open space.

It was eerily quiet and still.

“Derek?” Stiles whispered. “Marin?”

“Stiles,” Marin called.

Stiles turned towards her voice, noticing her slender, blood-soaked figure arched over the Mute’s unconscious body.

“What happened?” Stiles asked, scurrying to her side.

“Desert Wolf,” Marin muttered. “She was here, waiting for us. Give me your arm.”

“What?”

“Give me your arm!” Marin snapped, grabbing the boy’s wrist. She turned his arm over and plunged her knife into his flesh.

Melissa gasped, flinching as she fought back her instinct to run to Stiles’ side.

Marin clamped her hand over Stiles’ mouth as he let out a scream of agony.

She dug her fingers into his arm and pulled out the small tracking device, tossing it into the dirt. Her grip weakened and she drew her hand away from his mouth.

Stiles didn’t scream. He heaved in heavy breaths, the air hissing through his gritted teeth. He doubled over in pain, cradling his arms to his chest and rocking back and forth.

Marin crawled back and slumped down against a nearby tree trunk.

Stiles turned to look at her.

She held out a bow for him.

“The bitch took my weapon, so I took hers,” Marin hissed through gritted teeth, her voice growing more raspy and weak as she talked.

Stiles glanced down, noticing the barrage of arrows that were buried in her side and her gut. Blood gushed from her wounds and soaked the torn fibres of her jumpsuit.

Marin coiled her fingers around the shaft of one of the arrows, tearing it from her gut. She bit into her lip to silence her screams, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“You’ve got one shot,” she panted, beads of sweat forming on her forehead as her eyes became unfocused and weary. “Make it a good one, kid.”

Stiles took the bow and the arrow from her.

“Hold on,” he pleaded. “Just a little longer.”

“I’ll try,” she promised.

Stiles nodded and ran towards the tree.

A figure burst through the bushes.

Stiles notched the bow and drew the string back, aiming the arrow at the newcomer.

Corey pulled up to a halt.

“Stiles,” he said, raising his hands defensively. “Remember who your friends are… and remember who the real enemy is.”

The clouds darkened as a storm brewed in the skies above them, rumbling with thunder and glittering with eager sparks.

The cameras turned back to Stiles as he lifted his eyes to where the illusion of thick grey storm clouds spiralled across the holographic tiles of the arena roof, the outlines of the plates glittering as the lightning gathered.

“Stiles, get away from that tree,” Corey warned.

Stiles lowered the bow and turned around.

The Mute had done his job and had coiled the thick wire around the trunk of the tree and through the branches, leaving a long length of wire free.

Stiles grabbed the end of the copper wire and wound it tightly around the shaft of the blood-soaked arrow.

He notched it again and lifted the bow.

Melissa felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Come on, Mason,” she heard Stiles mutter. “Come on.”

“Stiles, get away from that tree!” Corey shouted over the brewing storm.

There was a low, quiet strum, quickly followed by a second.

Stiles pulled the string taut and aimed for the sky.

“Stiles!” Corey howled, racing forward.

There was a loud crack as the lightning stuck the tree.

The force blew Corey back, his limp body hitting the ground with a loud thud.

The electricity soared through Stiles’ body and ignited his blood.

He opened his mouth to scream, but he heard no sound. He felt his lungs burn and tears fall from his eyes as he released his fingers and let the arrow fly.

The screen blacked out.

Everyone was silent.

Melissa was trembling as she stared at the dark abyss of the television screen. Hot tears brewed in her eyes, stinging and blurring her vision.

“Oh God, no,” she muttered breathlessly. “Please… oh God, please… No…”


	21. Chapter 21

“He’ll know, sooner or later,” Scott argued, trying to keep his voice low. “It’s better if we just tell him outright.”

“We can’t risk him hurting himself or one of us,” Peter replied. “I think we should hold off telling him until we have a plan.”

“Stiles makes the plans,” Scott hissed.

“Then this will have to be one plan that we think up without him,” Peter countered “If we tell him then he’ll be devastated. He’ll shut down completely and we won’t get anything out of him.”

“It’ll be worse if you don’t tell him,” Scott argued, looking to John for support.

“He can’t handle it, Scott,” Peter said firmly. “The Games destroyed him. If you tell him that he’s lost Derek on top of everything else, then he’ll be broken beyond repair.”

“We haven’t lost him,” Scott argued. “Deucalion won’t kill Derek, he’ll use him for his own purposes and propaganda. He’ll find a way to manipulate him and use him against Stiles. If we tell Stiles, he can help us get Derek back. He can help us if we just tell him.”

The pistons hissed as the dividing door slid open, silencing them.

All eyes turned to the figure in the doorway.

“Hey, kiddo,” John whispered softly, smiling at Stiles.

“Dad?” Stiles rasped, shocked and perplexed.

“You’re awake?” Scott said with a sigh of relief.

“Where am I?” Stiles asked, looking about at the others around the table. His dark eyes took in the surroundings, indecisive of whether he was safe or caught up in an illusion.

“You’re in a plane that’s flying over the Districts,” Christ explained, keeping his voice low and calm.

“I’m sorry, we couldn’t tell you,” Peter apologised.

“Tell me what?” Stiles croaked, looking about the room.

“Stiles, before you react, just hear them out,” Scott bargained. “Please.”

“There was a plan, but none of us could tell you because Deucalion was keeping such a close eye on you,” Peter explained. “Half the tributes were in on it. This is the revolution and you are the spark. We had to get you out of there and somewhere Deucalion couldn’t touch you.”

“Where are we going?” Stiles pressed, suspicious of their ambiguity.

There was a moment of silence as the men exchanged glances.

Scott glared at them.

“Thirteen,” Scott answered. “We’re going to District Thirteen.”

“Thirteen was destroyed,” Stiles said innocently, his face creased with confusion.

“It was bombed, but not destroyed,” Scott explained.

“More importantly, why aren’t we going to Twelve?”

Scott felt his heart lurch; he wasn’t ready to answer that question.

There was another moment of silence, this one heavier and more tense than the last.

“Why aren’t we going to Twelve?” Stiles repeated.

Chris drew in a deep breath and answered honestly, “Twelve was bombed.”

Stiles froze. He fell silent. His lips quivered breathlessly as his legs weakened from beneath him and he collapsed back against the doorframe.

“Stiles,” Scott whispered, rushing to his side.

“Derek,” Stiles muttered.

“Stiles, calm down,” Scott encouraged.

“Derek,” Stiles repeated. “Where’s Derek?”

“He’s alive,” Peter assured him. “His tracker is still activated. Marin cut yours out.”

“Where is he?” Stiles said lowly, glaring at Peter.

John let out a defeated sigh. “He’s in the Capitol.”

“They got him and Mason,” Peter confessed.

Stiles was stunned for a second, his body shuddering as if he were going to be sick.

Scott steadied him.

Stiles stared at Peter with shock and betrayal as the boy rasped, “You left him behind?”

“We didn’t have a choice,” Peter argued. “You were our priority. They got to him before we could.”

“We have to go back for him,” Stiles growled.

“We can’t,” Peter replied bluntly.

“You son of a bitch!” Stiles howled. “You promised!”

Stiles lunged forward, brandishing a scalpel like a knife as he charged at Peter.

Chris leapt into action, grabbing the boy by the waist as Peter caught Stiles’ wrists.

Peter tried to dodge Stiles’ violent movements, leaning back in an attempt to keep the razor sharp blade away from his face.

“You promised you’d keep him safe. You promised you’d choose him over me. You lied!” Stiles shrieked, flailing about in Chris’ strong hold. He kicked his legs and thrashed about, desperate to break free, desperate to get his hands on Peter.

Scott raced into the other room and rifled through the case of medical supplies. He returned with a needle full of clear liquid. He was quick and precise, jabbing Stiles’ bicep with the needle and pushing down on the plunger.

Stiles’ movements became lethargic as he began to weaken in Chris’ arms.

“You’re a liar,” the boy croaked, glaring at Peter. “You’re a liar!”

The scalpel fell from his hold, clattering across the metal plating of the floor.

Peter released his grip on the boy’s wrists letting Stiles’ frail arms fall to his sides.

Glistening tears caressed Stiles’ pale cheeks as he fell back into Chris’ arms.

“You promised,” Stiles muttered weakly. “You… promised…”

Chris carefully lowered Stiles down onto the ground, setting the boy down in his lap before cautiously releasing him and laying him down on the floor.

The boy’s dark eyes fluttered slightly as they fell shut.

They all bowed their heads, their guts churning with guilt as Stiles’ trembling lips moved around a soft whisper.

“Derek.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it. That's the final chapter of My Hope, but don't worry, the story continues in 'Revolution'.  
> I hope you liked it! ^-^
> 
> Thank you all for your ongoing love and support! <3

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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